


Close to Home

by Glowstick



Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Hallucinations, Isolation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 23:48:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 95,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15448572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glowstick/pseuds/Glowstick
Summary: He's waited four-ever.NASA doesn't know Watney is alive.  How will trying to survive in total isolation until Ares 4 change him?  What new challenges will he face?  Can he make it 1408 sols without completely losing himself?For god's sake, someone send him a new mix-tape.





	1. Oh no

 

Close to Home 

    I'm walking home from the park with my dad on a summer evening.  The light of the setting sun reflects gold off the sprinklers and the grass, and the weeds in the pavement.  Everything smells like watermelon and sunscreen. It's hot but not humid, the crickets are buzzing, and as I skip ahead (careful not to hit the cracks) I think that this moment could not be any more perfect.  There's still a month left of summer vacation, but honestly I don't even need it, this evening will last forever. I stop to look at a ladybug so my dad can catch up.

    “Mark?”

    A plane passes above us, leaving a trail of cotton candy clouds behind it.  The ladybug takes off, flying parallel to it for just a moment before veering out of sight.

    I turn my head to look up at my dad, the light breeze ruffling our hair as we bask in the last light of day.  I have never been so peaceful.

    “Yeah?”

    The crickets get louder.

    “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

    I turn to face him fully and grin widely.  That's an easy one. I open my mouth to answer as the airplane sinks closer towards us, its engines drowning me out, impossibly loud.  Everything spins sideways as the world is ripped away from me.

    The crickets are screaming in my ear and something hot and sharp is in my side.  What happened to my dad? Is he okay? I can't breathe, why can't I...

 

Sol 6 

    Consciousness sinks its claws into my skull and pulls sharp daggers across my brain.  My head hurts. My side hurts. The hell is that noise, who set off the smoke alarm with their cooking again?

    Why are my pajamas so uncomfortable?

    ...

    Oh, right.  You’re on Mars, Mark.  You’re on Mars.

    I groan as I blink my eyes open, red dirt swimming into view as the oxygen alarm continues to blare in my ears.  I’m…not dead. Shit. Lewis is gonna have my head.

    I reach a shaky hand to the control panel on my suit.  ...there’s...an antenna in it. I press the button anyway.  It’s either gonna work or it ain’t.

    “Well, that went well,” I gasp over the comms, “also, ow.”

    I force a weak grin even though nobody can see me.

    Silence on the radio.  I shove down the flash of worry and refuse to acknowledge it.  It’s fine. I’m sure it’s fine. My suit is too broken to talk right now.  Alright then, I guess I’m coming to you. I know I shouldn’t be walking but you guys leave me no choice.  Don’t be mad at me, Beck.

    I groan despite myself as I roll to my knees.  Standing up is a necessary mistake, and damn does an antenna to the pelvis _hurt_.  But there’s no telling how long my suit has been beeping at me and I’m getting lightheaded.  Gotta seal the breach if I want to make it to the Hab without exploding. Get a move on, Watney.  I fumble for the patch kit, and yank out the antenna before my reflexes can stop me.

    A little screaming and a little resin, and I'm good as new!  ...except for the hole in my side and the flight suit full of Pure Oxygen.  Shit I probably should have shuffled closer to home before doing that. I stumble in the direction of the Hab, trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation of blood oozing down my side.

    “Is everyone all right,” I try again, not quite able to keep the panic from my voice, “because I am peachy.”

    …nothing.

    I stagger up a small hill and worry about what I’m going to see on the other side of it.  If the Hab is destroyed we’re all screwed. If the MAV tipped we’re double screwed. If I throw up in my EVA suit I’m screwed.  Don’t throw up. Left foot. Right foot. Oh gross, my sock is wet. Left foot. There you go.

    I force down the nausea as I crest the hill and glance up to check that the HAB is still in one piece.  It is! And the MAV is...is...

    Oh.  ...oh shit.

    For a moment I just stand there, stunned, unable to process what I see.  There's a cold terror down my back and I don't know why or what's wrong but I can't tear my eyes away from the empty landing struts.  My suit is beeping faintly over the rush in my ears but it doesn't even matter because I'm not breathing anyway. Something is supposed to be there.

    For a wild moment I think to myself that the wind must have carried it off.  Because they wouldn’t…they...

    My knees weaken as the full force of my reality hits me.  I am fucked. I am dead. I am alone on Mars (MARS!) with a hole in my side, a suit full lethal levels of oxygen, and no spaceship.

    “Crap.”

    I don't want to die out here.

    My body is shaking.  My eyes are losing focus.  I can’t tell if my heart is racing or has stopped completely but either way my chest hurts.

    I don’t want to die out here.

    Everything feels far away.  Nothing in the universe exists except me and the landing struts and the Hermes speeding towards some far off destination that only exists in dreams.  I can hear my blood cells dying. I’m going to pass out.

    Mark.

    They’re gone.  They’ve left. They’re gone.

    You don’t want to die out here.

    The ground returns to existence, tilts threateningly, and rights itself.

    ...I’m not gonna die out here.

    With difficulty, I tear my eyes away, move one of my feet in the direction of the Hab, and step into the airlock.  I don’t know how I got to the airlock. I assume I walked. I was breathing, I think. I'd like to say I stitched myself up as soon as the pressure equalized, but actually I just stood there with my helmet off staring at the lab equipment and abandoned coffee cups for like five minutes, pretending, and trying not to cry.  They're just out getting samples. Their coffee is right there. They're coming back.

    When I started getting dizzy from blood-loss I forced myself forward, pretended I was Beck, and patched myself up.  It's fine. You're fine, Watney. Take a day off to recover and then get back to your science like the rest of us. NASA doesn't pay you to laze around.

    …NASA doesn’t pay me at all now, I’m dead.

    No one knows I'm alive.  I'm going to die on this planet, alone.  I stare at the coffee cups for a long time and think about how, exactly, I want that to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to keep this story somewhat believable with regards to Mark's ability to survive. That said, I did have to stretch plausibility in a few places in order to keep him alive longer (particularly with regards to keeping the solar panels clean, and exactly how many potatoes he'd be able to grow). Please try not to think too much on whether or not his plans would actually work. They definitely would. Probably. Maybe.


	2. This is Dirt

Log Entry: Sol 8 

    So, good news, I’m still alive!  Woo!

    I had a good long think and decided that ultimately I didn’t want to die 6 sols into what was supposed to be a really cool science space mission.  Plus, if you squint, being alone in the Hab is a little like being a teenager being left alone in the house. Unlimited power. I can do anything. I can blast music, I can swear, I can eat all the ice-cream.  Or…could anyway, if I had any. That feeling is gonna wear off pretty damn soon, but I’m going to try to hold onto it as long as I can.

    At the very least I feel like I should try to finish the experiments we were all supposed to do.  It cost a lot to send us here and we barely got to do anything, so maybe I can make up for that. It’s really tempting to just lie down and die (you have no idea) but I’m not there yet.  Which means to give myself the option of life, I have to come up with a plan to survive 1406 sols until Ares 4 gets here. Alone. On Mars, did I mention?

    I have food for about a year, and I have to trust that I can come up with something for the rest of my stay, because if I can’t then what’s the point, really.  And I need to figure out a way to not go completely batshit banana bread. I’m not a psychologist, but I’m pretty sure prolonged isolation is Very Not Good for a person, not to mention the stress of an entire damn planet trying to kill you.  I know Beck has some medical texts on the subject, but I don’t really want to read them. ‘Cause they’re boooring. And because I’m a big chicken who’s afraid to know what’s in them. So for now I’m gonna focus on the easy stuff instead. Like conjuring 3 years of food out of nothing.  

Easy peasy.

 

Log Entry: Sol 10 

    Okay, so I’ve taken inventory and have come up with an astonishingly brilliant plan for food.  And by brilliant I mean horrible. It’s gonna suck. And smell. And I’m never gonna want to eat my mom’s shepherd’s pie again, which is a tragedy because lemme tell you that stuff is delicious.

    …I wonder what mom’s thinking right now.  She’s probably already been given the news that I’m dead.  Dear Mrs. Watney, we regret to inform you…Jesus. I hope Aunt Rose is taking good care of her.  This is going to be a hard four years for my parents. And then they’re going to have to find out I’m alive after all that and it’ll hurt all over again.

    …I’m gonna be so grounded when I get back.

    I still haven’t read Beck’s medical texts because I am a child and am still at least a little in denial about the whole ‘stuck on mars for a long time’ thing.  But I did take a look at the experiments he was supposed to do. Ugh. I’m gonna go back to staring at the coffee cups instead. That seems healthy.

 

Log Entry: Sol 14

    It’s been 8 sols since I started my enforced vacation with no adult supervision, and the lack of people is getting _old_.  Plus instead of doing fun stuff like stringing up disco balls and drinking booze I’m shoveling dirt.  And drinking…coffee. Like a lot of it, so I can have the grounds to mix in the fertilizer. But I’m still keeping some for later.  Four years is a long time and I’ll be damned if I have to go through all of it without caffeine, so my potatoes can suffer a little.

    Speaking of fertilizer, let’s not.  It smells about as bad as you think.  I was really tempted to plant some of the ferns NASA had us bring, just so that the little bit of nature would maybe help counteract the smell.  In the end I decided that was stupid and I didn’t want them eating up the nutrients in the soil. Man, what I wouldn’t give for one of those bathroom ceiling vents.  I can’t even spend my time outside instead, because I only have 1500 hours of EVA filters.

    Doesn’t mean I can’t use my filters for research too, though.  Since I’m digging myself a giant pit (for the dirt, remember, not to lie in) outside, I thought I’d take soil samples as I go.  No more of this lame “30 centimeters deep”, we’re gonna go down like…a meter. For science. And food. We’re gonna find out what weird stuff lies deep in the Martian soil.  Here’s hoping I unearth some long-forgotten alien artifact that comes back to life and kills me.

    But I’m tired of digging now, so I’m gonna raid everyone’s laptops.  You guys better have brought something good.

 

Log Entry: Sol 14 (2) 

    Nope.

 

Log Entry: Sol 22 

    “You got mud on your face.  Big disgrace. Somebody betta put you back into your place.  We will Martian rock you.”

    Okay, I’m done.  2/3rds of the Hab is now dirt.  Mostly dirt. Dirt and other things.  Let’s just say dirt. It’s already getting everywhere.  I’m gonna loot the other bunks for mattresses, pillows and blankets while they’re still sort of clean.  This much soil can’t really be contained, but I’m gonna try anyway and use some mattresses to build a wall around my bunk.  And I might make a fort with the extra blankets. Because I am an adult. And I’ve been left unsupervised ON MARS, so really this was bound to happen.  It’s your own fault. That’s right, I’m talking to you, faceless NASA employee.

    I have an idea for more farmland too, but that’s a project for another day.

    In science news, it turns out that the soil further down has small amounts of frozen water in it!  Not only is that really cool, but it’s also great for my amazing “Mark Watney Doesn’t Die on Mars” plan.  Okay, so it’s not like…a lot of water. Or enough. Or even nearly enough. But it’s something, okay? Anyway, I have a plan for water.  Just don’t ask what it is.

    ...

    Okay okay, I’ll tell you.  So I thought to myself “what is the stupidest and worst way I could go about doing this”, and then completely failed to come up with anything else.  So I’m stuck with plan A, the bad idea, which is setting stuff on fire. But you knew I was gonna do that. Because I’m desperate. And bored. But hey- if I die doing this, at least it’s gonna look awesome.

 

Log Entry: Sol 26

    I’ve only been on this planet for 26 sols and I am so sick of dust red.  If I had access to food colouring I would dye the soil so many different colours I’d be eating rainbows instead of potatoes.

    Speaking of potatoes, my first 12 spuds are in the ground now.  If I hadn’t already put in so many hours lugging dirt I’m not sure I’d want them to grow.  Three solid years of potatoes is a long damn time. Keeping the morphine handy just in case.

    There was a minor dust storm today, and something about the incessant pings against my feeble shield is kinda stressful, so other than planting potatoes I didn’t get much done.  I did end up setting up that blanket fort on my bed. I can’t see the Hab when I’m in it, and I can almost pretend I’m here by choice. It’s not a dust storm, it’s a snowstorm. The power is out, so I get to stay home.  I’m not alone, there are loads of people outside, shoveling, or trying to get to work. The snow removal trucks are beeping their way down the street but despite their best efforts it’s still piled halfway up the door and they’ve plowed a mountain of the stuff in front of Mr. Gerard’s driveway again.  But I don’t have to go out now, I get to stay warm and safe in the blankets and watch tv. Aren’t you lucky, Mark?

    Okay, I didn’t spend all day playing make believe.  Some of it I spent crying. I also shoved everyone’s bunk away from mine so I can fill them with (you guessed it) dirt.  At some point after the storm I’m gonna attach the emergency pop tents to the Hab so I can fill them with dirt too because god knows I haven’t done enough shoveling.

    …the wind is dying down now which means I’m gonna have to go clean off the damn solar panels.

    That’s another thing…over the course of 4 years, that’s a lot of solar panel cleaning I’m gonna have to do.  If I could rig up something so I don’t have to do it as often, that’s a lot of suit filters I’ve just saved myself, not to mention undue wear and tear on this glorified tarp that’s almost at its expiration date.  Plus…towards the end of my stay I’m not going to have a whole lot of energy to do anything. Will to live (a scarce commodity on Mars) can get you through a lot, but there’s only so much it can do against starvation.  If I’m going to die, I don’t want it to be because I didn’t have the energy to sweep off the sand and pay the heating bill.

    So yeah.  Things to think about.  And many, many more things I shouldn’t think about.

 

Log Entry: Sol 29 

    I’ve started alternating airlocks when I go outside.  I’m gonna be here a while (unless I die), so I should probably try to keep my one shelter against the cosmos functional for as long as possible.

    And on the staying alive front, you’ll be pleased to know that I am done shoveling dirt.  Seriously. I am so done, you couldn’t pay me to shovel any more. Both pop tents, and the entire Hab minus one lab table and my bed are now farmland.  Really smelly farmland. I’ve also added as much coffee grounds as I’m going to for a while, so now comes the fun part of trying to ration caffeine. No coffee today.  I want to cry.

    I was thinking about keeping the dust off of the solar panels.  Right now they’re just sort of lying on the ground, but if I could raise them up onto something, that would already stop most of the sand from getting on them except for on really windy days.  Problem is, there’s not a lot in here I could put them on. Most of the surfaces are…in use. Bleh. It’s an idea anyway.

 

Log Entry: Sol 30 

    …we were supposed to leave Mars today.

 

Log Entry: Sol 33 

    The feeling has worn off.  I’m sick of being alone. I’ve been sick of being alone since sol 6.  I am a social creature. I need people. I need noise and laughing and human contact.  I need my crew back. I need my crew and fresh air and strawberries and different stupid music.

    ...stop dwelling, Watney.

    ……..fine.

    I came up with an idea for the solar panels but I can’t bring myself to do it yet.  The surface dirt outside is loose because the wind blows it around a lot, so it’s pretty powdery.  But further down (where there’s small quantities of frozen water and also no wind) it’s packed a bit harder.  And who do we know who just dug a giant pit and has access to some good dirt? This guy!

    So I’m going to have to carve out (later) some blocks of dirt to use as solar panel table things.  That is the scientific word. More digging. I want to die.

    On that note, I’m going to try to make water today!  So whether this works or goes spectacularly wrong, it’s a win for me!  Wish me luck!

 

Log Entry: Sol 33 (2) 

    Hey, I’m not dead.  Sweet. Don’t tell mom I’m playing with fire.

 

Log Entry: Sol 37 

    I am fucked and I’m gonna die (the sequel).  So I’m hiding in the rover and the Hab is a bomb.  Because I am a genius. And if I hadn’t noticed, I would have just exploded and that would have been that and I’d probably be fine with it.  But I have noticed now, and it feels like cheating to blow up on purpose, so I have to try to fix it. …plus it would hurt for like a second, and that’s a second too long.  So.

    That’s why I’m hiding out here, staring at my only protection against the universe (as you do), thinking about a further away problem to calm down.  Procrastinating on solving Immediate Death by focusing on Farther Away Death. That’s what we grownups do. Hab canvas is made of radiation resistant material.  Space is full of all kinds of radiation from the sun and other things that is not good for you, and Mars doesn’t have enough of an atmosphere to protect you from it (you Earthlings have it so good) so NASA designed this thing so we wouldn’t all get cancer and die.

    Except…it’s not radiation proof, it’s radiation resistant.  Would you toss a water resistant watch into a swimming pool?  Yeah, you wouldn’t because it would fucking break. And I don’t want to break.  They did what they could, and it’s fine short term, but I am gonna be here a lot longer than short term, so I need better protection.  And I’m trying really hard not to think about how the only way I know how to get it is to build an extra layer of shelter out of…Mars…dirt.  Goddamnit.

    And I still haven’t started the solar panel tables.

 

Log Entry: Sol 38 

    Maybe the Hab will explode and I won’t have to do it.

 

Log Entry: Sol 38 (2) 

    Damnit Lewis, I was kidding about the disco ball.

 

Log Entry: Sol 39 

    I am not gonna die.  I am not gonna die. This is gonna work.  And I am not gonna die.

    Let the record reflect...that this was a _stupid_ idea.  Hookay. Here we go.  Not gonna die.

 

Log Entry: Sol 40 

    Yeeee guess who’s still aliiive?

    The Hab did explode, but did not explode enough, so I’m back on for dirt shoveling.

    Fuck you chemistry.  At least my potatoes love me.

    …And I still have to do this again!  Only...y’know. Properly. Christ. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m gonna go shovel dirt instead.  I already blew myself up today…I mean…yesterday…yestersol? Anyway, I’m tired and my ears are still ringing a little, so I’m gonna build some solar tables instead of doing math.

    As I go dig myself deeper into the pit I’m making outside, I try not to think of it as a metaphor.  I am not digging myself deeper. I am not in deep shit. NASA has satellites. Maybe they’re using them.  Maybe they know I’m alive. Think of the science, Watney. Think of the betterment of mankind. Think of digging to the center of this damn planet and stabbing Mars in the fucking heart.

 

Log Entry: Sol 40 (2) 

    I’m sorry Mars, I love you, please don’t murder me.


	3. Are you guys even looking?

Johnson Space Center 

    “We can’t wait a year for satellite time on Acidalia Planitia,” Venkat protested, “we need to know what survived the storm, what we could use for future Ares missions.  Just give me… an hour, that’s all I ask.”

    Teddy shook his head.  “The answer is no, I’m sorry.  The press isn’t worth it. If we want to have more Ares missions, we can’t afford to go reminding everyone of that time the mission killed an astronaut.”

    Venkat stared at Teddy, clenched his fists, and quietly reminded himself that he’s a pacifist.  They stood in silence for a moment. Teddy shifted.

    “We can’t do it.  You’ll get your satellite time in a year.  The supplies aren’t going anywhere.”

    “Okay,” Venkat said, pushing up his glasses and straightening his back, “okay.  Right now, people are invested. What if Ares 6 could bring his body back? How would the press like that?  Bring this American hero home. In a year…no one will care.”

    Teddy considered it, frowning.

    “And what about when we can’t deliver?  Assuming they can even find the body, which will be covered by 12 years of dust by then, where would we keep it?  It’s fine in the -60°C of Mars, but bring it into the Hab? Or the Hermes? Would you want to smell a rotting corpse for 150 days?  And even if we could build some sort of...refrigerated coffin, the ramifications of the team sharing space with a dead astronaut for so long would send the psych department into a fit.  I know it’s frustrating, and I know we have work to do, but this is not what we need right now.”

    Venkat exhaled, inwardly wondering how to talk his way forward.

    “Teddy-“

    “No.  I’m sorry, but no.”

* * *

 

Log Entry: Sol 46

    Guess what I did today?

    ...if you guessed “absolutely fuck all”, then you are correct!  I’ve been kind of distracted all week, and I couldn’t figure out why.  I just felt like...I needed to be home now. Not home like Earth, but home like back at my parent’s house in Chicago.  Like this feels like the time of year I’m due for a visit. My dad’s birthday is in the middle of December, so I thought maybe that was it.  A sol is 40 minutes longer than a day on Earth, so it’s kind of a pain to figure out the date. But I wanted to wish my dad a happy birthday or whatever, so I did the math.  When we landed on Sol 1, it was November 7th.  Today is December 24th.  It’s Christmas eve.

    ...Christmas at the Watney house is important.  I don’t have siblings to share it with, but I have cousins, and Aunts and Uncles.  We have traditions. We have good food. We have stupid jokes and hot chocolate that warms your soul.

    I was always going to have Christmas off-world this year.  The timing of the mission just worked out that way. Even with their early head-start, the rest of Ares 3 is still on their way back right now.  We were going to send videos back to Earth. Saying hi to our families, saying hey to the kids of the world. Pretend to see Santa, that sort of thing.  I could deal with not spending the holiday with my family if I were doing that.

    This is unbearable.  I just keep moving listlessly about the hab, wishing I were elsewhere.  Johanssen left some colourful hair elastics behind, so I shape them into spheres and hang them on the potato plants.  It’s pathetic.

    With a sick feeling I realize that I left Mom and Dad presents that the post office would have shipped to arrive by now.  Merry Christmas from space. Love, your son. Who is dead now. God, I’m such an idiot.

    For once I don’t even want to eat.  I should eat. I can’t. I’m going back to my fort.  I’m just going to lie there and pretend to be dead until I fall asleep.  If Santa comes to give me a present, maybe he’ll let me hitch a ride back.

 

Log Entry: Sol 49 

    So uh…here’s a thing.  I’ve started hearing noises that aren’t there.  At first I thought it was the Hab, that something went wrong with it and needs fixing, because that’s what noises usually mean.  But nope, nothing. And then I heard it again, like…muffled laughter. All of the laptops were off, and it sure as hell wasn’t me, so…

    I’ve decided it was Mars.  Mars is laughing at me. I don’t want to think about the alternative.  I know you’re sitting there thinking “Watney old chap, you are positively losing your marbles,” but I don’t want to think about it, okay?  I am gonna be here a long time and it is too damn early to start losing it, so I’d appreciate it, faceless NASA employee, if you’d shut it.

    I know, rationally, that hearing voices is just step one in the Watney Goes Crazy saga, and that I should read Beck’s medical crap to see if there’s any advice about…not…doing that.  But I fucking can’t, alright? I don’t…I don’t want to know what’s going to happen to me. I’m pretty sure there’s fuck all I can do about it anyway, and honestly I have enough to worry about.  Like goddamn dirt. And how the hell I can pirate some better music from Mars.

 

Log Entry: Sol 54 

    I’ve gotten a little stir crazy.  The hab has no windows. And don’t get me wrong- it is a lot bigger with only one sad astronaut in it instead of 6 happy ones.  But it is a small small thing to spend a long long time in. Especially when 90% of it is covered in dirt. The hab is basically my bed and lab table, kind of squished into the corner surrounded by mattresses.

    So to prevent myself from ripping myself a window out of the sides of the thing, I went for a walk today.  I didn’t go far- I’m not that reckless. But I went out for five hours, just walking around the hab, exploring.

    And you know what?

    ...it was beautiful.  The dust (the goddamn fucking red dust) was swirling around dramatically, the sun lighting up the orange sky was downright picturesque.  Looking over the landscape- sandy tornadoes and dead volcanoes in the distance, I was reminded of why we came here in the first place. Not just for soil analyses or chemical composition studies or geological surveys.  We came here in the hopes that one day, in some far off future where different people can work together towards a common goal, _one day_ , we could call this place home.

    Today, for just a moment, surrounded by stillness and quiet and the promise of a future worth fighting for, I tried to hate Mars, and I couldn’t.

 

Log Entry: Sol 63 

    I just finished making water, and I am pleased to report that due to the valiant efforts of the “Use Your Damn Brain, Mark” committee, I only exploded once!  So now I get to go back to the non-explosive kind of science. Boo.

    I can’t believe it, but I actually finished Vogel’s chemistry experiments.  I was bored of 70s tv, but not bored enough to do Beck’s crap, so I did that.  I would have done my own, way cooler and awesome science, but since I can’t plant any of the seedlings we brought along, that cuts down the amount of NASA sanctioned work I have to do significantly.  And my non-NASA sanctioned stuff is going to keep me alive, so I can’t mess with it too much. Watch out Johanssen! If you don’t come back for me right now I’m gonna touch the chem cam! …seriously, right now.  Now. Now would be good, please. Fuck.

    I’ve decided to start talking to myself.  I know it’s bound to happen eventually, so at least this way I can pretend it’s on purpose.  And anyway, talking is supposed to be good for plants, so…really it’s for the potatoes. It’s not so I can hear a voice again, and it’s definitely not to scare away Hab ghosts.  Because I am definitely not hearing things and also not going crazy. I am alone on Mars and I. Am. Fine.

    And anyway, with any luck I’ll be talking…or typing anyway, to real people before too long!  And then NASA can send me better science stuff to do and maybe food or something. Or maybe they’ll say “sorry Mark, you’re dead to us,” and that’s fine because then I can just die and I won’t have to put up with this (literal) shit anymore.

    Gonna start rover mods tomorrow.

 

Log Entry: Sol 64 

    Red rover, red rover, we call Watney over.

 

Log Entry: Sol 65 

    That’s one small spud for a man, one giant spud for mankind.  The first harvest is ready and I am a potato God.

    I’d like to say that some cool science shit happened as a result of being grown in Mars dirt, like the leaves are weird shapes or they’re red or they’re sentient, but nah.  They’re just potatoes. Whaddya gonna do. That said, and I know it’s dumb, but I’m going to keep one. Because if I end up dying anyway I want something new to have come out of this, and eating all of my mad experiments is not a great way to advance science.  So I’m going to keep one potato to study from each harvest, and if that means I end up starving to death, well, I’ll take it.

    Being out doing rover mods reminded me of my finite amount of CO2 suit filters, so I kicked my ass in gear and did more work on the solar panel tables.  I wanted to get it done before I leave anyway, to make sure nothing goes terribly wrong with the power while I’m gone. So I did. Because I am a productive little astronaut.  34 of them have been set up on their thrones, and I’m bringing the remaining 16 with me, so I can’t be bothered making their stands right now. They seem to be working pretty well so far and not falling apart, so at least it’s not for nothing.

    I’ve now been here over twice my intended stay, longer than anyone else has ever been.  Oh, the Ares 1 team might get to brag that they were here first, but to them I use the time-honoured “but I was here longer” argument.  You would think this might help me feel a little better, all these new records, all these advancements of modern science, all this shiny new planet with shiny new plant-life no one has ever seen before.

    It doesn’t.


	4. Hello?  Is this thing on?

Log Entry: Sol 69 

    I’m going to go dig up a big box of plutonium.  “Why, Mark,” I hear you cry (not literally). “Haven’t you blown up enough stuff?  Who are you gonna nuke in space, huh? Who? Where is the love, man?”

    No, we aren’t fighting a top secret interstellar war against the Martian peoples (wouldn’t that be cool though?).  I don’t need the plutonium so I can die heroically blowing up their base of operations, thereby saving humanity and the everyday citizen who will never know.  The people of Mars thank you for your concern though. …it’s me. I am the people of Mars. Thanks.

    I’m getting it ‘cause it’s friggin’ cold and I need a space heater (ha, get it?).  And yeesh, you would not believe how overpriced this one is. You kids at home can probably buy one for like 30 bucks, but Amazon doesn’t ship to Mars and even if they did the fees would be astronomical (double ha).

    While I’m there I’m gonna steal the green flag Lewis planted so I can doodle on it.  Hey- I colonized this planet in the name of potatoes everywhere. I should get to design the flag.

    …maybe on the way back I’ll attach it to the back of the rover so it looks like a bumper car.

 

Log Entry: Sol 72 

    Last night I dreamt that the RTG leaked and killed me.  The sand around the rover turned black and the radiation crept towards the Hab like ink, darkening the ground, wilting the potato plants, making the air taste like chemicals.  The wave of radiation sped towards me, setting off and immediately killing the laptops, until it reached my bed, silent and murderous. The water evaporated out of me and my lungs burned until they caught fire and I couldn’t breathe- then I woke up.

    It took three hours of obsessively checking the potatoes and the air composition before my heart calmed back down, and I only got away with four hours of sleep.

    ...so uh...try not to sleep near a source of deadly radiation if you can avoid it, kids.  Also try not to get left behind on a planet your species was never supposed to be on.

 

Log Entry: Sol 71 

    Alrighty, the Hab is even more humid and full of CO2 than usual, Vogel’s weird music is playing on a loop (I couldn’t subject my precious potatoes to disco) and I’ve loaded up the rover with food, water, and NASA’s tourist camera.  You know what that means! Roooad trip!

    Man…the last time I went on a road trip was when I was still in at University of Chicago.  Some buddies and I made improper use of our March break by actually taking a break, and we drove 12 hours straight to New York.  I remember it seemed like such a long drive at the time. Perspective sucks.

    Once the Hab was out of sight, I just kind of closed my eyes and drove for a while, pretending.  Martinez, Beck, Johanssen, Vogel, Lewis…they were all here with me. We’re back home, just going on a road trip to New York.  Hamilton is playing on Broadway. There was some bickering about who had to sit in the middle and in the end Vogel volunteered.  There is no disco.

    …by the way, don’t do that at home, kids.  It’s generally a bad idea to close your eyes and pretend to be somewhere else while you’re driving, but there are no lanes to stay in on Mars, so I can afford not to look at the road some of the time.  Plus I don’t care if I die (when did that stop being a joke?) and there’s no one else here my stupidity can kill, so.

    Anyway, traffic looks good, back to you, Tom.

Log Entry: Sol 72

     _Holy shit_ I forgot about stars!  Wasn't this why we came out here in the first place?  They are so beautiful and distant and I am so very very small.  After all that time in real and simulated daylight, it feels almost spooky for it to be dark.  NASA would never let us go out at night.  Good little astronauts should be in bed where it's safe.  But not me!  I'm not even tired!  ...just kidding I am so tired oh my god.  Hope the monsters don't get me!

 

Log Entry: Sol 76 

    When I stopped to set up the solar panels I saw something weird sticking out behind one of the rocks.  And it’s good I have the RTG because I may need to heroically blow up some bases after all. That’s right, it was a Martian.  …no, I’m not kidding! Look, look, I took a photo, alright? Seee? I am NOT going crazy.

    …now, skeptics may claim that that’s just a cutout photo of Martinez gone over with green highlighter.  But those skeptics would be fools to dismiss this! Look at those paper-clip shaped antennae! Look at that birthday cake with the actual chicken wing on it.  Would a human eat that?! I don’t think so! I am the expert on all things Martian, and I say: aliens.

    The truth is out there.

 

Log Entry: Sol 82 

    You will never guess what I found today.  A rock! I know, crazy, right? Kind of flat on one side, bumpy on the other.  And a very slightly different shade of fucking Mars red than the other rocks! I’m gonna add it to the soil samples and digital photos I’ve been taking.  Lewis would care about this rock, so I care too.

    Oh, also I found Pathfinder.  And itty bitty Sojourner. I took some pictures of them before I messed Pathfinder up and took the parts of it I need.  …you know how sometimes the before picture on makeovers looks better? …don’t worry Pathfinder, I have some green emergency ribbons back at the Hab.  You can look beautiful again.

    And I’m an idiot who didn’t think to bring something to use as a ramp, so guess who got to spend for freaking ever moving rocks and dirt around?  ...This guy! I am _so_ tired!

    …These suckers better work.

    Gonna start heading back tomorrow.  On tonight’s menu: 3/4 of re-hydrated macaroni and cheese, warmed to perfection with deadly radioactive isotopes.

 

Log Entry: Sol 87 

    I found another rock!

    …no more Martians so far.

 

Log Entry: Sol 94 

    Aaand we’re back.  I’m pleased to report that my potatoes, and by extension me, are still alive.  The first thing I did when I got back after waving my arms around wildly and just kind of screaming for a bit was to wake up the Hab from screensaver mode and start checking all the systems.  Sojourner is warming up inside, and Pathfinder is chilling (ha! ‘cause it’s freezing) outside.

    Once that was done I watched tv.  I know you’d think I’d want to start working on Pathfinder right away, after all that work getting it.  But…I don’t. As long as I don’t try to turn it on, I can pretend it’s functional. As long as it’s off I can pretend someone at NASA is out there ready to listen.  Maybe they’ve already dusted off their Pathfinder, and are just waiting for me to turn on mine. But maybe they haven’t, they aren’t watching or listening, and they don’t know I’m alive.  Maybe I can’t fix my Pathfinder. Maybe I can fix it but SETI and The Deep Space Network don’t register it. Maybe they do register it, think it’s an error, and ignore it. The point is I don’t know.  It’s Schrodinger’s lander. And I’m not ready to find out that I’m all alone out here, so I’m watching tv in my blanket fort and pretending I’m home.

    …wish I had popcorn.

 

Log Entry: Sol 95 

    …Schrodinger’s lander is out of the box.  I’ve done everything I can. Now we wait and see if it’s still breathing.

 

Log Entry: Sol 96 

    Sojourner is so tiny and adorable.  It’s like a puppy. If I wheel it around the Hab I can pretend I have a pet.  I balanced one of Beck’s hats on the antenna, so now it has kind of a face. I would _kill_ for some googly eyes.  Or...y’know...a spaceship, or whatever.

    I know where my priorities lie.

    ...what?  It’s not sad.  It’s just boredom.  Don’t give me that look.  You’re just jealous that Sojourner has a face and you don’t.

 

Log Entry: Sol 98 

    Okay.  So nothing is happening.  But that doesn’t mean anything.  It takes a while to dust off old technology and assemble the people who actually know how to use it.  It’s okay, it’s fine. It’s working on my end (as far as I can tell), and if I can get this klunker going after being on Mars for so long, I’m sure JPL can get theirs going too.  It just takes a bit of time.

    Don’t give up on this, Watney.  You know how slow space people are.  Could take a week. Go check on your potatoes.

 

Log Entry: Sol 98 (2) 

    The potatoes are fine, and so am I.  The potatoes are fine, and so am I. The potatoes are fine, and so am…

 

Log Entry: Sol 99 

    Pick up the damn phone, NASA.

 

Log Entry: Sol 100 

    They’re just being slow, Mark.  Wouldn’t you feel stupid if you killed yourself and then Pathfinder moved like…the next day?  And anyway, you didn’t shovel all that dirt only to die now.

    …think of all the new Star Trek you’ll never see if you don’t make it off this damn planet.  Captain Sisko would want you to live. They need the ratings.

 

Log Entry: Sol 105 

    Shit.  They’re not answering.  They’re not going to answer.  This is hopeless.

    Mars is laughing at me again and it’s right to.  I should have seen this coming.

    Somewhere out there in another universe there’s a Mark Watney who is talking to Earth right now.  In another universe there’s a Mark Watney who was never stranded on Mars in the first place. In another there’s a Mark Watney who never went to space, never wanted to be an astronaut, and makes a living by selling paper airplanes online.  What a chump I must look like to them.

    For all I know there is no Earth anymore.  With no way of contacting it, it could be gone completely.  I could be the last human in the universe. This could all be for nothing.

    …at least that would mean they didn’t abandon me.

    It’s hard to motivate myself to do anything.  I know I should keep my hopes up. I know I should start thinking about how to get to Schiaparelli, even if it’s a long way off.  But eating is a chore and thinking is a chore and I spent the last two sols crying in bed and staring at the coffee cups, my last shred of evidence that other people used to be here with me.  I keep the morphine by my bed and its presence helps me sleep. It’s a nightlight that promises this won’t go on forever. …it feels like forever already.

    I’m uh…I’m going to…  I’m gonna go work on that radiation shield for the Hab.  I mean dirt. My dirt shield. I’m going to shovel dirt and live in the dirt and be dirt.  I deserve this for getting my hopes up. I hope the dirt kills me. I’m going to go scream at the dirt and just keep shoveling until I can’t feel anything anymore.  I don’t want to feel anything anymore. Why the hell am I even still here.

 

Log Entry: Sol 106 

    This was a stupid idea.  I’ve only covered about a tenth of the Hab.  I’m using more solid blocks at the base but when I get higher up I’ll have to use softer sand so I don’t risk puncturing a hole in it and killing me.  Can’t just igloo my way out of this; I don’t have the tools for that and dirt doesn’t stick the same way snow does. Plus igloos are built from the inside, and since my inside is occupied I can’t do that.  And I can’t just stop, either. I need the shield, the sooner it’s up the less radiation I’m exposed to. Crap, this sucks.

    …my back is murder.  I’m taking a Vicodin and going to sleep.

 

Log Entry: Sol 108 

    I pointed Pathfinder’s high-gain antennae at Earth today, so I can pretend.  JPL has theirs turned on too. I can tell because the antenna is pointing the right way.  I’m just ignoring them, that’s all. Because I’m mad at them. For leaving me on MARS. I’m not alone in the universe, there are people right there.  They’re probably on their knees apologizing right now, sending flowers, saying they didn’t mean it. Well, I’ll take the flowers, NASA, but I’m still not talking to you.  I just think we need some time apart. I need time to think and decide where I want our relationship to go. Check back in 1306 sols.

    …Hab ghosts moved two of the coffee cups today.  Not a lot, just kind of rotated them, but I’ve spent enough time staring at them to notice.  I don’t remember doing it. The Beck in my head is saying “I told you so” and waving his boring doomsday texts at me.  I’m not going crazy. Maybe it was the potatoes. Maybe they’re sentient after all.

 

Log Entry: Sol 110 

    Beck in the head was right, so I’m doing his experiments as punishment.  Chemolithotrophic detection. Ughhhhhh. Fuck you and your boring medical science that I don’t understand, Beck.  Still not reading the damn texts.

    Mars is laughing in the background.  Fuck you too, Mars.

    ...this is garbage.

 

Log Entry: Sol 116 

    In the interests of finding out whether my potatoes have become sentient and are moving things around, I dug them all up.  I mean, that and it was time to harvest them anyway. Still, setting one aside so I can check for brain activity.

    They actually grew better than I was expecting.  Maybe the music and coffee is helping. I can’t imagine it’s the shit.  Mars dirt is good for a lot of things, so I guess it’s good for potatoes too.  Still fucking hate it though.

    Anyway, Pathfinder isn’t moving.  It’s not going to move. I give up.  Part of me thinks I should just leave it as is, so that the next astronaut NASA strands alone on a planet can try to use it, but a bigger part of me just wants to break it to bits and tear out its insides.  So I broke it to bits. It was good venting, even if it’s a slight waste of CO2 filters. I barely have to go outside now anyway, so I don’t care. I earned it.

    When I was a kid my gramma used to spend almost all her time knitting and singing old folk songs.  She said it calmed her, but I never understood how she could spend hours and hours doing that and not get bored.  I loved her though, and I wanted to spend time with her, so I asked her to teach me.

    …now, this may surprise some of you, but actually there’s no wool or knitting needles on Mars.  What there is, though…is a whole lot of Pathfinder wire. And shortish metal sticks for soil samples.  So I am going to attempt to use this million dollar equipment to make the worlds most uncomfortable scarf.  This may seem like a frivolous use of my time when there’s still three and a half astronaut’s worth of experiments to do, and a 3200km drive to plan.  But it still seemed more productive than killing myself, so I started on it anyway.

    …in five more rows I’m gonna work in a green emergency ribbon.


	5. Death Ray

Log Entry: Sol 117

…the water reclaimer is acting up.  It’s probably just clogged tubing, from all the dirt, but then again maybe it’s broken forever and I’m dead.  I mean, it’s definitely the dirt, but y’know. Fingers crossed. “For what,” you may ask. “What are you hoping for, here?”

…hell if I know.

Anyway, I’m gonna take it apart.  What’s the worst that could happen?

 

Log Entry: Sol 117 (2)

It was the dirt.  I fixed it.

I feel like someone should have been nagging at me not to do that.  And someone should have nagged at me not to break Pathfinder. And someone should have been vocally against me setting fires in the Hab.  These are things they trained us not to do. Don’t take apart vital equipment. Don’t turn stuff into bombs. Don’t risk your life for entertainment.

But no one is here to stop me.  So I do the thing. I’m gonna have really crappy impulse control if I get back.  Nobody knows I’m here, so nobody cares if I die. I never feel more alone than when I’m doing things I really,  _ really _ shouldn’t be doing and the universe and all its inhabitants just  _ let me _ .

But fuck feelings, who needs them.  Feelings are for people who have other people to talk to.  And it’s just me and my potatoes and my ghosts here, so my feelings can shut the hell up.

My stomach can shut the hell up too.  3/4 rations looks good on paper, but it’s really hard in practice.  How do you divide soup into quarters? Also have you ever tried not eating part of a candy bar?  It doesn’t work. Astronaut meals are pretty small to begin with, and I’m not even having that, so I am hungry all the damn time.  I need to keep working on the Hab shield, I need to do system checks, I need to make the rovers useable for the drive to Schiaparelli, and I should probably, probably try to finish Beck’s experiments.  And Lewis’. And Johanssen’s. Thank god Martinez doesn’t do anything.

Anyway, so I have all this crap I need to do in order to not die and it’s hard.  Not just because sometimes dying sounds pretty good, but also because more and more it’s hard to will myself to do anything other than curl up in a ball and count the minutes until my next ‘meal’.

I won’t start eating the potatoes for another two harvests, but I hate them already.

 

Sol 119

You’re fine, the Hab is fine, you’re fine, the Hab is fine, you’re fine, the Hab is fine.

There’s been a medium grade sandstorm all day and I’ve spent the whole time cowering under my blanket fort curled up in a ball with the morphine uncapped in my hand.  I can’t. I can’t do this. Who decided going to Mars was a good idea? What fucking genius. Fuck this planet.

Every time the Hab shakes I think this is it.  This is how I die. And okay, I want to die, but not like fucking this.  Not with Mars dust in my lungs and my ears popping and painful, freezing death.  I wish I could hide in the rover but it wouldn’t be safe to go out and I wish I could wear a suit but I can’t spare the filters and I’d wear it anyway because FUCK IT but I can’t do that every time there’s a storm and some storms last months and I can’t spend months in an EVA suit.  I hate logic and I hate wind and I hate this planet.

I keep trying to pretend I’m somewhere else, somewhere safe, but my heart is racing too hard to believe the lie my mind is trying to sell it.  It’s windy because we set up the fans outside our blanket fort. The pinging of sand against the walls isn’t sand at all it’s- THE FUCK WAS THAT?!

“SHUT THE FUCK UP MARS,” I scream over the wind and the laughter and the sound of hammers on metal.  “I swear to god I am THIS FUCKING CLOSE! I’m gonna do it and then you won’t be laughing because you won’t have anyone left to fuck with!  You’re gonna be just as fucking alone as I am and it’ll be forever! I swear to god if I get through tonight I am gonna fucking kill you!”

I’m standing in the middle of the Hab now, knee-deep in shit dirt and shaking uncontrollably.  It’s warm in the Hab, but I’m freezing. The laughter circles me and the coffee cups rattle and I’m about to hyperventilate and I can’t stop crying.  I’m holding the morphine to my leg and I swear if ONE MORE THING goes wrong I’m gonna fucking do it.

“I DARE YOU,” I yell, “I FUCKING DARE YOU, MARS!”

The laughter circles me.  The winds blow. The Hab shakes.  I stand, quivering, in the center of the universe.

 

Log Entry: Sol 120

…I am so fucking tired.  The winds died down a few hours ago and the laughter went with it.  There’s still the occasional pinging of sand against the Hab, so I know I can’t go out just yet, but I don’t want to anyway.  I just want to sleep. Forever.

I don’t really remember falling asleep, but at some point early this morning I just kind of sank into the dirt and sat there half lucid and unable to think until everything quieted down.  Not that I can think now. My brain is not braining. What are words? Ugh. I feel like crap and my back hurts and so do my legs from standing all night. Really not looking forward to going out and cleaning the solar cells later.  And on top of it I got dirt on my morphine needle. …I mean, I guess sterility doesn’t matter that much when you’re killing yourself, but it still kind of bugs me. Like I don’t want to give Mars the satisfaction of getting into my bloodstream.

And I meant what I said, Mars.  I will murder you. You are fucking dead.  I’m going to live until Ares 4 and I will get to Schiaparelli and we will all go talk to NASA together and say “this planet is irredeemable, we need to blow it up”.  And NASA will go “Yes, that seems reasonable, let’s do that, you’re right, fuck that planet,” and then you’ll be sorry. I’m starting plans on a death ray as soon as I regain cognitive functions.

Christ I’m tired.  I’m gonna sleep. But mark my words, when I wake up I’ll…clean the solar panels, actually.  But THEN! Death ray. Enjoy your last few years of life, Mars.

 

Log Entry: Sol 122

Death ray.  Death ray. Death ray.

Oh hey, my Pathfinder scarf is coming along nicely.  It’s not very bendy and it’s like 3 meters long. I’m almost out of wire, but we have a ton of extra in here I could use if I don’t care about my life.  So I’m thinking about making it even longer.

And I’m going to live to make Mars pay, so that means work on the radiation shield has resumed.  Fury at this god-forsaken planet runs through me and makes my limbs move. So I’m like…halfway done.  I know, I impress myself too. I’m going to switch over to softer sand soon, and I’ll make sure to fill in the gap between the Hab canvas and the hard layer with sand so it cushions it a bit more.  You don’t scare me, sun.

Sandstorms on Mars are going to be a lot quieter when it’s done.  Can’t torture me with the sound of dirt pinging against the walls when there’s a wall of dirt over the wall that the dirt would have been pinging against…you get the idea.  Clearly words still elude me. I’m hoping my death ray plans will help me focus and keep my mind a little longer. There’s a lot of science and math involved in the murder of a planet.  So it’s good for my brain. And anyway, it’s fun.

 

Log Entry: Sol 122 (2)

Mars, Mars, Mars.

…you are so  _ deceased. _

 

Log Entry: Sol 140

I should start getting the rovers ready to get to the Ares 4 site.  I know there’s still…1274 sols until the crew gets there, but I don’t know how much work I’ll be able to do later.  Potatoes may keep me alive but I don’t think they’ll give me enough energy to do more than point the drive stick forward.  I’m worried about having to set up the solar cells every day, too. It takes effort to take them off the roof and lay them around, and if I can’t do that then I’m fucked.

…and this is all assuming I even have a brain left to do all this with.  I’m only about a tenth of the way through my isolation and I’m hearing things and apparently moving things around without realizing it (the potatoes were not sentient.  I checked). So that bodes well.

NASA shrinks will be happy to know that I’m keeping my mind active, anyway.  I’m halfway through Lewis’ geology experiments, and I’m also engaged in detailed story creation.  …which is to say I spend a lot of time in my blanket fort with my eyes closed pretending to be someone and somewhere else.  And of course there’s the death ray plans. So my brain is still working for now.

I do have a vague sort of plan for the rovers involving drilling a giant hole in the roof and sticking a tarp over it.  I’ll need to go over it again in detail, but my ghosts and I agree that it’ll definitely either work or kill me horribly.

I wish I could spray paint the rover or put cardboard cutout batman wings on it or something.  All I have to decorate with is green emergency ribbon and my Martian flag. I ended up drawing a potato (because I’m so original) in the middle of the RTG flag, and around it I drew the…wing thingys from the United Federation of Planets logo.  …from Star Trek. Because oh god I’m a NERD TOO Johanssen I was wrong! So anyway I have a super rad flag now that everyone has to use forever because I am the king of Mars and I have decreed it so.

I’m gonna go draw up some more thorough plans for the rovers so I don’t end up killing myself in a stupid and unexpected way.

 

Log Entry: Sol 164

You say potato.  I say potato. Potato.  Potato. Potatoooo. I have not lost my mind.  But potato. I mean. Potato harvest. We have our third round of potatoes!  At some point after the last harvest I had to build an outdoor shed-thing out of rocks (not my geology rocks!  Different rocks). So I’ve got quite a collection going now. I have about half of the potatoes I need to live until Ares 4.  So I’m doing well. I mean I’m not doing well, I’m talking to myself and starving to death on Mars, but I don’t think I’m gonna die yet, so you know what I mean.  Anyway, it seems like maybe the skin on these potatoes is slightly redder than the last harvest? Gonna set one aside with the other science potatoes.

Also, I finished the stupid radiation shield. It’s very impressive, if big piles of dirt on top of flimsy tents is the sort of thing that impresses you.  After I was done I spent en entire day convinced the Hab was gonna just collapse under the weight of it. I knew it wouldn’t, and my math was fine, but it was a pretty nerve-wracking time.  Blanket forts don’t offer much protection against that.

On a related note, I solemnly swear that is the LAST TIME I’m going into the dirt pit.  In fact, forget the pit, before long I’m going to run out of reasons to go outside. That’s gonna be fun.  I still have to trick out the rovers and sweep off the solar cells maybe once a week, but other than that…

Oh hey- speaking of rovers and solar cells…I had an idea about setting them up when I’m on the road.  And…it’s a stupid idea, but it…might…work? You remember those ladder toys we had when we were kids? …Jacob’s ladder, I think?  It’s just like a bunch of blocks with some ribbon on it and when you pull the top one off it all kind of pulls out in a line? Anyway, I’m going to try to build one with the solar panels.  That way if I can mount it on the back of the trailer rover I can just kind of…pull it out instead of having to drag them off the roof. They’re not that heavy, but everything is harder when you’re dying, so anything I can do to make the trip easier would be amazing.

“But Watney,” I hear you cry (again, not literally), “Surely the green emergency ribbon is not strong enough for 16 solar panels!  And surely it would not be safe to have them all falling off the back of the rover!”

Well, faceless NASA employee, you’ll be pleased to know that I have…a PLAN!  I’m going to make four stacks of them, and mount two on the sides of the rover, one on the front of rover 2 (my bestest buddy who will be driving), and one  on the back of rover 1 (aka the trailer). That way I’ll be nice and balanced and nothing’s going to fall off of anything. I’ll have to mount them at least two feet off the ground, just in case I hit some rocks or something, I don’t want them getting all scratched up or break.

As for ribbon…you remember that Pathfinder scarf I was making?  …HAHAHA!! I TOLD you I was being productive! You thought it was a big waste of time, didn’t you?!  You thought “Mark, don’t destroy the historical artifact! Mark, don’t spend all your time making the most useless article of clothing ever!  Mark don’t make little (NASA approved, non-flammable) paper hats for your potato plants”. Well WHO shouldn’t do stuff NOW?! All told I’ll need about 26 meters of scarf-ribbon to make this work.  I looted the MDV and the MAV landing struts (again) for more wire, and if I add that to what I already have in the Hab it should be enough. Normally you’d just nail the ribbon into the wood, but obviously I can’t do that, so I’m going with the trusty resin.

So that’s the plan.  Go out when I have to, make some scarves, and drill a big hole in this million dollar car.  Also try not to kill myself. Thanks for the knitting lessons, gramma.

 

Log Entry: Sol 172

Ran into a slight hitch with the death ray plans.  The thing would have to be huge (like, the size of a small moon) in order to have planet-frying capabilities.    That’s a lot of material and Earth just doesn’t have the resources for it. Plus my current plans hinge on us discovering a few elements that don’t actually exist yet.  Maybe I should focus on finding a way to open portals into alternate universes instead, so we could just borrow theirs. That kind of research can be really expensive, though.  Not just because no one’s ever done it and it should be impossible, but also because that kind of technology is really easy to abuse, so we’d need some crazy good security measures.  …eh, I’m sure NASA would be willing to front the cost. They kinda owe me.

I’ve also finished the revised plans for the rovers, and run a crapton of simulations to make sure it’ll work.  

…did you buy that for a second?  You did, didn’t you. I have no way of running simulations.  Our laptops have a bunch of cool programs installed (like minesweeper), but I’m afraid 3D modelled simulations are a bit beyond them.  I’ll only really know if it’s going to work when I get to Schiaparelli. I mean, there are a few tests I can do here, but there’s always something that can go really wrong and kill you dead and there’s no way to prepare for that.

I’m going to start the mods in a few days.  I’d do it now, it’s still early enough in the day, but I’m tired.  Like, really tired. I don’t really feel like I’ve slept at all. I don’t know if this is because of the malnutrition, or the isolation, or the depression, or if my sleep cycle is just fucked up somehow, but I just want to go to sleep and wake up 500 sols from now.

I know putting off the work isn’t going to help any, I won’t have any more energy tomorrow than I do today, but I don’t care.  I can’t bring myself to work. I don’t even feel like knitting. I don’t feel like watching tv, or listening to crappy music, or tending my plants, or playing weird old DOS games.  I just want to lie in my blanket fort and pretend to be asleep.

…I wish my potatoes were sentient so they could talk to me.

That would…make it really awkward when I have to eat them though.

 

Log Entry: Sol 180

I’ve been on this planet 30 sols for each of us.  Can I go home now?

…Drilling holes sucks.  It’s done, but ughhh. It would have been annoying enough to do if I were healthy, but as it was I was dizzy and unfocused a lot of the time, plus my motor skills aren’t what they used to be.  I still haven’t read Beck’s isolation texts, but I did read some of his boring other crap, and it turns out that depression, sleep deprivation, anxiety, starvation and being abandoned on fucking Mars are all really bad for your brain and your ability to do stuff.

But I did stuff anyway!  Because fuck this planet that’s why.

I also finished Lewis’ experiments.  That leaves me with Johanssen’s, and half of Beck’s.  I’m so tired, it’s really tempting to just give up on them, but I won’t.  Because the decline of my cognitive abilities is scaring me. I can feel my brain downgrading from an Acer Aspire T3 computer to like…an Apple IIe.  I’ll work on plans and halfway through my thoughts will just leak out the side of my head and I end up just staring into space for a few hours. And then eventually I’ll go “what was I doing just now” and I’ll try to remember, but most of the time I can’t even focus enough to go back through my memories and I get a headache.  So I’m doing the experiments. I wish I could say it’s for the science, but it’s not. Nothing is for science anymore.

I hope I still have a brain when this is all over.  Or enough of one to just use the morphine if I don’t.  I don’t want to get back to Earth if I’m not going to be able to live.

…maybe it’s just the lack of sleep.

 

Log Entry: Sol 192

I’m gonna name all my potato plants.  It seems rude to keep talking to them and not even know who they are.  And it’ll…uh…help me remember everyone. So that one there is Josh. That one’s Mom.  That one is Alice. The big one in the corner is Vogel. This one is kinda…bent over weird?  Like the plant is fine, it’s just the stem is kinda doing a weird loopy thing instead of going straight up.  Martinez.

Beck.  Johanssen.  Lewis. Dad.  Buzz. David.

This one isn’t growing as well as the others.  It’s sort of small. I’ve been trimming it and giving it extra attention, but the leaf colour is still a bit off.

…Hang in there, Mark.  We’ll make a fine plant out of you yet.

 

Log Entry: Sol 196

…I am almost out of coffee.

…there are 1218 sols left until Ares 4.

…and I am almost.  Out. Of coffee.

Fuck.

 

Sol 213

Today I stared at the ceiling of my blanket fort.  Beyond the blanket I can see the ceiling of the Hab.  My eyes move through it, past the layer of dirt that protects me, past the near-non existent atmosphere.  I can see into space, far into it. I travel over the 225 million kilometers, to Earth. I can see the EDV separating from the Hermes, I can see it land.  I can see a hero’s welcome for our brave astronauts.

I try to feel happy for them.

I take two Vicodin, and I stare past the blanket and into the cosmos.

Welcome home, guys.


	6. Where'd I go just now?

Log Entry: Sol 260 

    Okay, so I know it’s been…a while since I updated this log.  But you know how it goes. Time flies when your internal clock is fucked up because you’ve spent the last 254 sols in total isolation.

    So good news: I finished my wire scarves.  AND I constructed my very expensive Jacob’s ladder toy that will keep me alive.  It seems to work okay, so hopefully that’ll be a bit less work for me when I’m driving.

    I also finished the rover modifications!  …actually I finished them a few sols ago. But then I ran out of projects to do and I kind of.  Stared into space for a really long time, crying and unable to think. …I’m sure it’s fine.

    Anyway my rover-train has been tested and should work okay, so now it’s gonna sit in the charging dock until I’m ready to leave, in forever from now.  All I’ll need to do is pack in the essential life saving equipment, fill up my potato bags and put the Mars flag on the back of it. I know flags usually go on the front of the vehicle, but this seems like a backwards sort of place, so.

    But more importantly, today I get to harvest EVEN MORE POTATOES!  And these ones are definitely a shade redder than the last bunch. When you hold it up next to my first harvest potato there’s a noticeable difference.  Man…I haven’t gotten excited about botany in a really long time. But this is so friggin’ cool! Aghh I want to study the differences between them _now,_ but I don’t want to cut open my only harvest 1 science potato until I have access to better lab equipment.

    Also it turns out it was a mistake naming the potato plants.  Because then I had to dig them up. And I’m gonna have to eat them.  Buzz grew the fewest potatoes. I hope he’s okay.

    …I’m still going to name the next group of them.  Remembering the names of the people I love is worth a little heartbreak at the end.

    I’m starting to eat the potatoes now for food.  I still have about 140 sols worth of “real” food, but I want to keep as much of that as I can for when I need to do more physical work.  I’m done most of the manual labor now, and the winds have been pretty low so I’ve only had to clean the solar panels once in the last 30 sols.  You don’t need a lot of energy to lie around and occasionally check on your petri dishes.

    So maybe I’ll do a taste test.  Harvest 1 potatoes vs harvest 4 potatoes.  The real pressing questions of our time.

 

Log Entry: Sol 260 (1) 

    …the harvest 4 potatoes are more bitter than the harvest 1 potatoes.  Makes sense. I’d be bitter too if I were forced to live on a barren wasteland planet, covered in shit and coffee grounds and having to nothing to listen to but disco, emo music, and the ravings of my mad roommate.

    Oh wait…

 

Log Entry: Sol 264 

    Shit shit shit.  Today I saw one of the coffee cups move and I also saw the flicker of a person in my peripheral vision.  I know that wasn’t real, which means it’s imagined, which means I’m getting worse. At this rate even if I get to Ares 4 I won’t be able to differentiate the crew from my hallucinations.  I have to do something about this.

    So I read Beck’s doomsday texts.  Well…I mean skimmed them, trying all the while to pretend I was someone else.  I’m just asking for a friend, you know. This has nothing to do with me personally.    And it turns out isolation can affect your sleep patterns, give you anxiety, weaken your immune system, affect your ability to concentrate, make you hallucinate and give you impulse control problems.  Which doesn’t sound familiar _at all_.  And some people are prone to bouts of rage, or self-harm, or become suicidal.  And this is from studying incidents of isolation that spanned over a year and a half.  And I’m going to be here for more than twice that. So guess who’s fucked, again?

    And of course there aren’t really any suggestions on how to deal.  They’re all from your standard academic “hey, looks like this thing is bad for you.  And it made all these people completely lose their shit, isn’t that neat? Best to avoid extreme isolation if you can”.  Fucking this is why I didn’t want to read them in the first place.

    The studies did mention that people who had at least minimal contact with others did better, but of course that’s a pipe dream for me.  And it said exercise helps. Thanks, useless study. I’m done the rover mods, so I’m all out of exercise to do. And exercise burns calories and therefore kills me faster.

    All I can really do is keep my mind engaged, I guess.  It doesn’t help that I’m stuck in a tent and can’t really go outside.  I’m going to try to do more math things, because if I lose the ability to do that, I’m dead.  I still have a little bit of experiments to do, but that’s not going to last me another 1150 sols, so I’m going to have to come up with something else.

    …I’ll think of something.  I have to think of something.  For now, I’ll start getting more invested in my pretending.  Maybe I’ll make up detailed background stories for the people I’m pretending to be.  Really build my surroundings in my mind. I can’t go outside, but maybe my brain can.  Your guided meditation has nothing on me. If I can be around other people again, even if they’re not really there, maybe it’ll stop me from wanting to walk out the airlock without an EVA suit.  This is definitely gonna fuck up my perception of reality though, so I’ll have to be careful with how often I do this.

    Mars is laughing again.  My head hurts. My heart hurts.  My back hurts. I just want this to be over.  But then who will make sure Buzz grows okay?

    I’m just gonna take a Vicodin and go to bed.

 

Log Entry: Sol 270 

    When I get home I am gonna plant the biggest garden you have ever seen.

 

Log Entry: Sol 290 

    My dear Katherine,

    We are now three months into our journey across the seas.  The crew, though tired and missing their families, are in good spirits.  I must admit the meals on this ship pale in comparison to your home cooking.  I miss both it and you dearly.

    Today we spied an island on the horizon.  This is curious, as it was not marked on our maps.  Our navigator, Mr. Marseille, promises me that we are still on course, and he is a man of his word and so I must believe him.  This makes the island all the more exciting - a new piece of the world that is yet undiscovered. Or perhaps it has been discovered already.  Could some unsavoury character have buried stolen goods upon it? Could there be a thriving population of people who have never seen a ship? It is a mystery that promises untold treasures and new adventure.

    We are a few hours out from it yet, but already I can see the green of the local flora.  Should I spy anything beautiful upon its shores, I shall certainly keep it for you, dear sister.  As for now- the salty sea breeze and the call of the gulls keep me awake and engaged. Before long we shall drop anchor and explore, and eventually we shall continue our journey.

    I hope you are well, and think of me as fondly and oft as I think of you.

    Until the morrow,

    Marcus.

 

Log Entry: Sol 291 

    …I don’t…remember recording that.

    I’m gonna…go work on Beck’s experiments now.  No more pretending today.

 

Log Entry: Sol 310 

    Buzz did really well.  He grew the second most potatoes after Martinez.  They’re about as red as the last harvest, so hopefully they won’t be any more bitter.  …have I mentioned how sick I am of potatoes? Because I really really am.

    That one log entry kind of freaked me out, so I’m mostly avoiding pretending to be other people now.  Which SUCKS because if I’m not other people then I’m me, the dead starving astronaut on Mars. I’m nearly out of experiments too so it’s time to think about other ways to occupy my mind.  My options are limited.

    I even beat one of Johanssen’s nerd games.  And you know what? …it doesn’t look that complicated to make one.  And she has the software to do it, too, complete with little built in tutorials.  My death ray plans have hit a dead end (ha) so I thought I’d try moving on to coding.  …I say coding, but there aren’t really that many commands you need to know to make a choose your own adventure game.

    I’m going to try to make the first ever Martian video game.  It’ll be complete with its own Mark Watney stuck on this damn planet trying to survive and get back.  Not only will it make my brain work AND make me focus on a character that is, in fact, me, but it’ll also help me troubleshoot problems that may come up.  Productive and entertaining. Plus, I can make the digital Mark Watney kill himself as many times as I want with very little consequence to actual Mark Watney, who is me.

    I’m going to add in a bunch of random events too like sandstorms and meteor showers and great potato uprisings.  On Mars you can’t trust anyone. Not even your spuds.

 

Log Entry: Sol 360 

    Ladies and gentlemen, it’s been a long road, but I am now pulling up the very last of the Martian potatoes.  I hate them so, so much, but I’m also really proud of them all. Every last ‘tater is doing its part to keep me alive, and that’s something to be thankful for.  …may they burn in hell.

    I went outside for the first time in a while so I could deflate the pop-tents.  I don’t really need them anymore and there’s always a slight risk that something will puncture them somehow and blow up, therefore blowing up the Hab as well.  I mean…it’s a very, very slight risk, but this planet seems to thrive on that, so I don’t want to tempt it. Anyway, I didn’t bother taking the dirt back out (I swear I will never shovel again), I just kind of left it in the deflated tents on the ground.  The sand will cover it within a sol or two, but whatever. If I need the canvas for anything I know where it is.

    While I was out I noticed that my dirt pit is filling in. I mean…I knew it would, I knew the wind would eventually fill it with sand.  It’s not a big enough crater to survive the elements. But it’s almost half full. That’s impressive. I’m going to have to make sure I remember where it is.  I’d look really stupid driving the rover into a sinkhole that I made because I forgot it was there. Like Wile E. Coyote.

    Life on Mars (my super rad game) is going pretty well.  I’ve more or less figured out how the commands work, and I’m busy writing options for the stuff I’ve already been through.  Content is easy when it’s based on reality. I’m actually really looking forward to getting to the part where I make it off this planet.  At least one of us will.

 

Log Entry: Sol 362 

    Holy crap (HA!) I did some soil analysis on my Mars dirt for kicks, and I could be wrong, but I think that’s a new bacteria?  …I mean, it’s hard to tell with my limited Hab technology, but I spent a lot of boredom time looking at dirt through a microscope, and I don’t recognize that one.

    …you’re going into the science soil samples for later analysis, my friend.

 

Log Entry: Sol 376 

    I had to go out to clean the solar cells today.  The sun was setting as I finished up, and the sky turned blue.  It was…I just stood there, staring. I’d sort of forgotten it did that.  I usually try not to look at the landscape too much when I go out. It’s too big.  I’m used to the Hab now, my tiny space with tiny me in it, and the wide open area that is outside of the Hab kind of unnerves me now.  Plus I haven’t looked into the distance for a really long time, so everything’s kind of blurry. But the sky was so blue and I thought for a moment that somewhere on Earth it looks exactly like this.

    I couldn’t stop looking at it.  I didn’t even realize I was crying.

    …and then of course the sun set and everything is pitch black and I had to fumble for the light built into my suit arm in order to find the door to the airlock.  But I’ve been thinking about that blue sky all night. I want to see a sky like that again. On Earth. I want to see it without a helmet in the way.

    I want to go home.

 

Log Entry: Sol 382 

    I want to die.

    I always want to die, but today I want to die more than usual.  I’m starving and I haven’t slept and all I’ve eaten in weeks is goddamn potatoes and I want to die.

    No one knows I’m here.  No one knows I’m alive. The world has moved on without me.  Maybe I should move on too. Maybe I’m already dead. I am. I am dead.

    …so maybe I should move on.  I don’t even know why I’m fighting anymore.

 

Log Entry: Sol 382 (2) 

    If I died right now I wouldn’t have to eat this fucking potato.

    It’s staring at me.  With its _eyes_ (ha).  And it’s gonna taste just as bland and lonely as all the other Martian potatoes.  And it’s gonna keep me alive.

    Why are you doing that to me, man?  Why are you keeping me alive? What did I do to you?

    …are you mad at me because I kept you alive on this cold dead planet you were never supposed to see?

    Fuck you.  Fuck you, potato.  Fuck you Mars. Just kill me.

 

Log Entry: Sol 382 (3) 

    I’ve been looking at this potato for three hours now.  I’m gonna have to use some of my precious ketchup rations because otherwise I’m just not going to eat it and I’ll die.

    I want to die.

    But I still have ketchup left.  So I guess I’ll stay alive for now.

 

Log Entry: Sol 400 

    Okay, so I know, I _know_ I said I wouldn’t shovel any more dirt.  And I don’t need to, really. But I am so tired of potatoes and also anything that reminds me of potatoes.  And you may not be aware, but every damn thing in the Hab is full of potato dirt. It’s filthy. I’m filthy.

    It’s not like I needed to find something to do, either.  I still need to go outside to clean the solar cells again, but I don’t want to and there’s still plenty of stored energy and the dirt was bugging me.

    So I shoveled it all to the side opposite my bed, so I can be as far away from it as possible.  And then I thought…well, that’s not very pretty. So I kiiind of turned it into a sandcastle. Because, as we have all established by virtue of my blanket fort and potato flag, I am an adult.  It’s actually a really cool castle. It has a tower and drawbridge and everything. And a moat. Martian Martinez sits on top of it, overlooking his kingdom.

    And then, because why not, I planted two different fern seeds in it.  I won’t do too much to help them live, I don’t have that kind of energy and my experiments are invalidated by now anyway, but who cares.  I miss talking to my potato plants and if I don’t plant something new then it’s just me talking to myself.

    It’s a bit weird having floorspace again.  I cut open some sample bags and spread them everywhere to try and keep the place somewhat clean.  Then I built a hot tub with the RTG. It’s just been chilling in the Hab this whole time, sitting on top of Sojourner.  Yeah, I’ll probably have some impulse control issues when I get back. Whatever. I’m warm and almost comfortable for the first time in forever this is _bliss_.  For a moment I think to myself that I can actually make it to Ares 4.  And then, because the ferns haven’t sprouted and I talk to myself now, I say it out loud.

    “I can make it to Ares 4.  I have a bath. I have food.  I have a scientists curiosity.  And I want to see the look on their faces.  I can make it to Ares 4.”

 

Log Entry: Sol 414 

    Only a thousand sols to go!  You dicks better not be late.

 


	7. Soundtracks

Johnson Space Center 

    Mindy Park clicked lazily at her computer.  New data was available for Dr. Kapoor. She straightened, squinting at the latitude and longitude.  It must be the Ares 3 site.

    What a fiasco that mission had been.  Usually when a crew comes home they get a big hero’s welcome, complete with cake and confetti.  Ares 3’s was muted by the death of their colleague. Understandably, none of them were very interested in celebrating their safe return.  As soon as they were released from medical observation, Commander Lewis had insisted they go over the satellite data; figure out what happened, how they could have prevented it.

    The request was denied by both Sanders and the psych team.  The press didn’t need a reminder of NASA’s failure just as things were starting to calm down, and the Ares 3 team didn’t need the reminder that if they had left a minute earlier or later, Watney would still be alive.  She privately agreed with the decision. The crew was still spotted sometimes in the halls, officially for training exercises. Irene Shields, their therapist, always seemed to be around on those days.

    Guiltily, she opened one of the image files.

    It was no secret that Kapoor and Sanders had fought over the satellite time for Acidalia Planitia.  When Kapoor had lost the battle he spent a full week scowling at his computer and ignoring everyone around him. It got so bad he’d reportedly snapped at Annie Montrose one day and she practically dragged him out by the ear to give him a lecture.  After that he’d reserved his irritation for Mr. Sanders. In the last year and a half he had spent at least one day a month with him, arguing that anything useful would be buried in sand by the time they took a look at it.

    It looked like he was right.

    The Hab was still intact, but it was completely covered in a layer of dirt.  There were two sandy rover shaped objects parked where the charging ports should be.  The MDV and the MAV struts, though faintly recognizable, were so thoroughly buried it was impossible to tell what parts of them were and weren’t damaged.

    For a moment she wondered where Mark Watney ended up.  

    Mindy would never want to go to space.  She couldn’t imagine dying on a cold alien planet, hundreds of millions of kilometers from everything she calls home.

    She hoped Watney was at peace.

    There was no way to tell if the rovers were still functional, but everything in the Hab should be alright.  They would need to replace the food and medicine as it would expire long before Ares 6 would get there, but the rest of it would be fine.  Dr. Kapoor should be happy.

    She closed the image and composed the rest of her email to him.

 

* * *

 

Log Entry: Sol 439 

    Okay, now I’m definitely not going to shovel any more dirt.  And I know this, because I don’t have a shovel anymore.

    …I have a guitar.  Not an electric one or anything, I don’t have any of the materials I need to make that.  It’s just a real, playable acoustic shovel-guitar. With dental floss strings.

    I’m kind of surprised the dental floss actually worked, but as long as you tighten it extra you can actually get a decent variety of notes out of it.  Dental floss is useful for a lot of different things and doesn’t take up much room, so NASA sent more of it than they thought we’d actually need. I’m not sure this is what they had in mind.

    Any good space explorer worth their salt (I am out of salt) knows how to make an instrument out of anything so they can write crappy songs about the universe.  Because Lewis’ disco and Martinez’ emo music and Johanssen’s Beatles and Vogel’s weird stuff and Beck’s lecture notes get old really quick.

    And my music is on the goddamn Hermes.  …actually, no, I guess it’s on Earth by now.  Damn. Makes your luggage being sent to the wrong country seem like no big deal.

    Anyway, I want to make sure I still know how to use my vocabulary and although Life on Mars is helping with that, it doesn’t hurt to try something else.

    Wow.  First Martian musician.  …my songs are gonna be out of this world.

    …

    I’d like to be out of this world too.

 

Log Entry: Sol 442 

    Oh my god I’m out of crappy 70s tv.  This is a nightmare.

 

Log Entry: Sol 450 

    I accidentally killed Mark Watney.  I didn’t notice a computer glitch. That is, there was a glitch in the code, and I didn’t notice it, so it skipped over the dialogue options and went straight to one of the “Mark kills himself” endings.  Oops.

    Still.  Computer glitch.

    I’m gonna put that in the game.

 

Log Entry: Sol 453 

    I saw Martinez today.  And I don’t mean Martian Martinez overlooking his kingdom.  I mean I saw, for a second, Martinez.

    Shit.  My hallucinations have faces now.

    And on top of it, Mars is laughing again.

    You are so lucky I don’t have the energy to go out and punch you in your damn face.  Death ray plans are still on. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.

 

Sol 458 

    The lone Martian went about his daily routine.  He woke up to the smell of imagined fresh coffee.  Blearily, he nodded to the assorted coffee cups, and summoned the will to get out of bed.

_Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup_

_They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe_

    Today he wanted music, and so the sound The Beatles filled the air of the tent he calls home.  He checked on the ferns that grew steadily in the soil he so painstakingly collected. He was proud of them.

_Pools of sorrow waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind_

_Possessing and caressing me_

    The storm last night was mild, but he hadn’t been outside in weeks and the solar panels were all but useless under the build up of dust.  He checked that his suit was sealed and headed into the airlock, humming.

_Jai Guru deva om_

    The airlock shot across the landscape.

_Nothing’s gonna change my world_

    It rolled.

_Nothing’s gonna change my world_

    The Martian swore as his head hit something metal.

_Nothing’s gonna change my world_

    It continued to roll.

_Nothing’s gonna change my world_

    It stopped, a trail of dust following it from the Hab.  Inside, the Martian seethed with rage.

* * *

 

Log Entry: Sol 458 

 

_You know what!?  Fuck this! Fuck this airlock, fuck that Hab and fuck this whole planet!_

_Seriously, this is it!  I’ve had it! I’ve got a few minutes before I run out of air and I’ll be damned if I spend them playing Mars’s little game.  I’m so god damned sick of it I could puke!_

_All I have to do is sit here.  The air will leak out and I’ll die._

_I’ll be done.  No more getting my hopes up, no more self-delusion, and no more problem-solving.  I’ve fucking had it._

 

Log Entry: Sol 458 (2) 

    …but fuck I’ll be damned before I let Mars have any of my ketchup.

    So I have to fix this.   _Again._

 

Log Entry: Sol 459 

    I managed to get my hands on Martinez’ suit, so now I’m hiding in rover 2 with it.  I’ve been awake for 24 hours, my ferns are dead, and I still have fucking Beatles stuck in my head.  Today has been a Bad Day. I am eating this potato with ketchup. Future me can suffer.

    Everything hurts from slamming into the airlock so many times.  I may also be slightly concussed. Fuck. There are no cons to cussing.  ...yeah, that was pretty weak. But so am I, so give me a break. Please, I really really need one.

    Tomorrow I have to patch up the Hab, check all the systems and make sure my potatoes didn’t somehow get out of the shed.  And I’m probably going to have to rebuild my sandcastle, damnit. …I hope my guitar is okay.

    I really have to be careful with how often I go out now.  I only have two airlocks left and I’d been alternating all three, so they’re probably weakening too.  I’ll run a canvas check when I get back to the Hab. I’ll probably have to actually use some of the extra canvas for its intended purpose.

    I should sleep, but I can’t.  The Hab has no windows (something about transparent plastic not blocking radiation apparently) and the view from the rover bothers me.

    You can imagine, from a windowless tent, that there’s a thriving population just outside of it.  But out here, with the sand stretching forever into the distance…Earth feels really far away. It is far away.  But the distance feels tangible. You can stick out your hand and feel that nothing else on the surface is moving beyond dust and wind.  This planet is empty. It will swallow me whole.

    I look at the floor instead.

    It feels like forever since I’ve been in this rover.  It’s so different now from what it was originally mean to be, what it should have been.  Mars has changed it, mangled it beyond recognition. It used to be a beautiful explorer, and now it’s been cut down to a shell.  Only the most necessary parts remain. Just the minimum to keep it functioning. This rover is my brother.

    …goodnight, brother.  Don’t let Mars kill me in my sleep.

 

Log Entry: Sol 460 

    Mars didn’t kill me in my sleep.  It also didn’t (completely) kill the Hab.  It didn’t kill my potatoes (I did that, on purpose), although it did kill my ferns.  But it also claimed a far more important victim.

    …Martian Martinez is gone.

    I know it’s just a cutout photo gone over in highlighter (there, I admit it!  The great alien sighting of sol 76 - god that was long ago - was a hoax) but to me it’s more than that.  I thought he had just blown under the bed or something, but I can’t find him anywhere. Mars lost a great ruler today.

    I’ve been deliberately trying not to think too hard on the past.  Just focus on staying alive so you can get to tomorrow. So I haven’t really dealt with any of what’s happened.  But losing Martinez was like…losing Martinez. In my mind’s eye I can see the MAV lifting off. And I’m here. The loser who slept through his flight.  The idiot who didn’t dodge.

    I just lay down and cried for two straight hours.  Each tiny inconvenience on this planet formed a grain of sand behind me and the resulting wave of it crashed down on me, blocking out the light and the oxygen and filling my lungs with dust.  I hid in my blanket fort (newly reconstructed) and _sobbed_.  I cried harder than I did when Pathfinder didn’t move, harder than when I connected too closely to one of Lewis’ more depressing songs.  I could handle an airlock explosion, but not this.

    When I was done I didn’t have the energy to do anything but turn my head slightly so I can look at the coffee cups.  One of them is broken now, but I can’t bring myself to throw out the pieces. When my eyes were too tired to stay open I fell asleep.

    The king is dead.  Long live the king.

 

Log Entry: Sol 474 

It’s Christmas every day on Mars,

So grab your beers and your guitars,

your iPhone 12s, your caviars,

And come and sit beside me.

 

And if you are prepared to stay,

a year, or ten, or just a day,

just know that I’ve destroyed the sleigh,

for daring to outshine me.

 

The coffee’s gone, the tea’s too cold,

Chicago winter’s getting old,

you’re freezing to your very soul,

your sweater all but threadbare.

 

The chill you feel beneath your skin

Is not from ice but from within;

The ghost of all that should have been

And those who used to tread there.  


 

Log Entry: Sol 476 

    I’ve rebuilt the sandcastle and stuck a paperclip where Martian Martinez used to be.

    …he would have liked that.

 

Log Entry: Sol 498 

    I am so boooored.  I’m out of tv, experiments and life-threatening crises.  I’m tired of thinking up ways my digital Mark Watney can die and one of the dental floss strings broke on my guitar and I’m too tired to fix it.  Some of the bacteria survived in my mars dirt which is cool, but I don’t have what I need to find out what kind of bacteria it is, so it’s not like that discovery kept me entertained for long.

    Ughhh this is taking forever.  And everywhere I look is either Mars red or NASA white.  Sterile vs contaminated. Boring dust vs. boring plastic.

    NASA shrinks should’ve pushed for a more interesting colour scheme.

    …I’m gonna use the green emergency ribbons to decorate.  It’s a party every day in the Hab. Tired of dull, monochromatic colours?  Sear your eyes with these!

    Maybe the burning in my eyes will distract me from the burning in my stomach and the fridge with a handful of _actual food rations_ in it that I’m not allowed to eat.

 

Log Entry: Sol 505 

    I’m so tired I can’t move.  …there’s no reason to move, really.  No experiments to run. No plants to tend to.  No people to pretend to be a whole person to. Just me and my goddamn potatoes.

    But my bones are already going to be brittle as fuck if I get out of this and I can’t afford to have my muscles atrophy so much that I can’t leave the Hab when the time comes.  I need to get out of this bed.

    …I need a reason to get out of this bed more.

    Beck in the head is nagging at me.  He hasn’t done that in a while. I didn’t know you still cared, Beck.  It’s not enough. You’re not enough.

    The water reclaimer beeps faintly.  It needs to be cleaned out again. Mars laughs quietly in the background.  Fuck you, Mars. Fuck. You.

    I swing my legs over the side of my bunk.

    You don’t get to decide when I die.

 

Log Entry: Sol 528 

    ...shit.  This is what I get for whining that nothing is trying to kill me.  I'm used to alarms blaring all over the place, so I almost didn't notice it when there was a new one.  But the oxygenator alarm is a very slightly different pitch. So I noticed. Which brings us back to: shit.

    This wasn't supposed to happen.  Clogged plumbing I can fix, a tent full of hydrogen, _I can fix_.  We do not have spare parts for the oxygenator.  And I can’t grow some out of dirt. Not before I suffocate, anyway.

    So I have five sols worth of emergency filters for the backup, but once they're saturated, I'm sunk.

    I haven't had to use my brain in a while, this is gonna be hard.

 

Log Entry: Sol 530 

    I got nothing.

    Actually, that's not totally true.  I did manage to find an extra 25 sols of not being dead.  Because I remembered that I'm one person and not six, so actually the filters will last a grand total of 30 sols.  I cannot believe I forgot that.

    Christ.

 

Log Entry: Sol 534 

...I found the problem.  And I'm an idiot. A lucky, lucky idiot.  And I fixed it.

    “But Mark,” I hear you cry (not literally, but give me a few weeks, you never know), “you said the oxygenator was irreplaceable!  You said it's full of really delicate science stuff and if you open it you'll fuck it up and die! How did you open it without fucking it up?”

    Wow, faceless NASA employee.  You should watch your fucking language.  We're supposed to be professionals here.

    But I'll tell you how.  I managed to not fuck up opening the oxygenator by not opening the oxygenator.  After frantically reading through the manuals and troubleshooting everything and finding _fuck all_ that could tell me what was wrong with it, I found the problem.

    ...the goddamn alarm.  Some of the humidity must have gotten into it and set it off.

    Fortunately, the casing that holds the sound chip designed to scream loudly when Bad Things happen and scare starving astronauts half to death is built separate from the oxygenator itself.  This means I can open up the alarm system without affecting the rest of the system and fucking it up and dying.

    Unfortunately, it's not the kind of case that's designed to do that.  Once you open it, you can't close it again. So I opened it. Because I am not sitting through another 806 sols with that ringing in my ears.  I'm just going to have to keep an eye the oxygenator and hope it doesn't actually fuck up, because otherwise I won't know.

    ...At least I only used 6 sols of my emergency CO2 filters.

 

Log Entry: Sol 549 

    I know I shouldn't focus on could have beens, but I can't help it.  What if I had walked a few feet to the left? What if I had gotten sick before we left Earth and been grounded?

    What if...I don't know.  What if they had noticed that I was alive?  What if Pathfinder worked? Not for long, I'm not selfish, but what if it worked long enough to talk to someone, to make a plan?

    What if the Hermes came back for me _right now_ , and I launched into space in a tin can held together by bubblegum and hope and I was _safe_?

    It physically hurts to think of all the alternate Mark Watneys who aren't suffering right now.  Fuck it. The multiverse theory is crap anyway. What if there's only one universe, and it's this one, and I'm the only Mark Watney there is?

    I owe it to the universe to keep myself alive.


	8. Bad Dreams and Bad Names

Log Entry: Sol 600 

    I’ve been listening to Martinez’ emo music all damn day.  I couldn’t stand disco and the Beatles are either too upbeat or too relatable.  So it’s just me and the music alone on this planet. And my _feelings_.

    I’m seriously, honest to god considering listening to Beck’s lecture notes.  I know I won’t understand them, but honestly.

    When I was a kid we didn’t talk about our emotions.  …mostly because I wanted to be a Vulcan. But also because we just.  Didn’t. In fact, when I was a young boy, my father took me into the cit-

    …

    Goddamnit, Martinez.

 

Log Entry: Sol 615 

    Last night I dreamt that the Hab was sinking.

    Somehow, the winds were so strong they pushed the whole thing twelve meters to the right, where the pit I dug is.  And it sank. The sand started leaking through the roof (it didn’t decompress though, because dream logic). It started filling up and I’m trying to stay on top of it but it isn’t working.  I’m clutching my Mars flag in one hand and ketchup packets in the other and I’m sobbing because I can’t find the morphine- _where is it_?  I can’t stay on top of the sand and Mars is laughing, and behind it I can hear the MAV taking off, over and over on repeat.

    The sand presses in on me and starts crushing my ribs and I wake up, but I can’t move, and _there is a monster sitting on my chest_.  And I’m screaming, but only inwardly because my muscles won’t move, and it’s just sitting on me, its eyes boring into mine, and I have never been so terrified in my life.

    Eventually it disappears and I can move so I fling myself across the Hab and my heart is hammering in my chest and I gasp for air.

    I’m shaking and I can hear myself breathing over the machines and for a moment I think _something else is on this planet with me_.

 

Log Entry: Sol 625 

    Fucking sleep paralysis.

    You’re on Mars, Mark.  Alone. Utterly so. I told you; the only monsters here are in your subconscious.  …and your conscious. It’s you. You’re the monster, Mark.

    …oh, shut up, Beck.

 

Log Entry: Sol 640 

    Mark Watney has made it back to Earth.  Con-fucking-gratulations.

    …I don’t know how I finished this game, honestly I don’t remember writing half of it.  I just kept typing stuff and then eventually I ran out of things to type.

    I thought I’d be happy to see myself get back to Earth.  But I hate video game me. He’s an optimist. He tries a thing and it’s hard but then it works.  And he gets home. If I were him right now I’d only have another 31 or so days (days!) of space left before I land.  And I’d have my crew. And _pizza_.  Not like…real pizza, but still.  Not potatoes.

    But whatever.  That Watney didn’t do as much science.  And he left his rocks behind. And his potatoes.  What kind of astronaut does that?

    I mean, you can still get the ending where Watney is stuck on Mars and has to wait for Ares 4, but for obvious reasons I kind of have to like that guy.  I don’t want to play it.

    …I’m gonna go make the Hermes be out of reach.

    Flood your suit with Nitrogen, Mark.

 

Log Entry: Sol 651 

    ...I wonder who’s president now.

 

Log Entry: Sol 670 

    Mark Watney would be landing on Earth today.

    …What an ass.

 

Sol 677 

    The Hab is shrinking.  I know it’s not really shrinking, but my eyes say _it’s fucking shrinking_.  The canvas walls are shaking and moving closer and I’m going to die, again.  If I close my eyes and touch them I can feel that they’re not moving, but even with my eyes shut I can see them pressing towards me.  I’m gonna get crushed by lab equipment and no one will know how I died.

    I slam my hand against the floor, hoping the noise will scare away the visions.  Again. Again.

    At some point the floor becomes my leg and I’m just hitting myself and the pain slows the walls a little.  I can’t stop. I’m frightened, but I can’t fucking stop.

    Eventually I run out of steam and I only have energy left to reach an arm up and drag a blanket off my bed.  My legs hurt and my hand hurts and my eyes hurt and my head hurts. So does the rest of me.

    I groan and roll over on the floor, wrap myself in the blanket and curl into a ball.

    My stomach growls.

    Fuck.

 

Log Entry: Sol 710 

    I’m tired of whining, so today I’m doing…SCIENCE!

    I don’t really know what bacteria survived the airlock explosion, but future settlers might want to know that sort of thing, so I’m planting some more ferns, and sectioning off the dirt.

    So one of them will be planted on one side of the castle, with nothing added to the soil except water.  And another will be planted on the opposite side, but I’ll mix in more…um…fertilizer. It’s not like the Hab can smell any worse, so…

    I’m gonna keep track of things like soil composition (not that I can really check that too accurately) and growth.  If there’s any useful Earth bacteria left alive, we’re gonna know about it.

    Personally I’m hoping the (possibly) new bacteria will do good things for the soil.  Of course, we won’t really know how it’ll affect food, if it’ll be safe to consume or not, but whatever.  I’m gonna bring my ferns with me when I go to Ares 4, assuming I don’t kill them somehow. Maybe they’ll have a botanist with a brain and better equipment who can study it.

    I’ve got Vogel’s weird German music playing in the background.  I had caved and listened to the lecture notes, but hearing not only voices, but the shuffling of papers and coughing and like…muted conversations had me so homesick I couldn’t get anything done.  It’s my favourite thing to listen to, now. But sitting down all teary-eyed waiting for that part where someone mumbles “hey, good to see you man” is not great for productivity.

    Speaking of Vogel, his laptop is of course full of things I don’t understand.  But I was bored, and after clicking random stuff anyway I found what appears to be a chemistry quiz to help study for exams.  God knows why he would need that for a trip to Mars, but _thank you_ , weird crewmate.  It’s in German, but some of the questions have pictures.  Let’s see how badly I fail.

 

Log Entry: Sol 710 (2) 

    Haha, 27%, _nice_.

 

Log Entry: Sol 730 

    I’ve heard it said

    That “science rules”

    I bet they had

    The proper tools.

 

    Wish I could say

    that science bites

    But I admit

    That they were right

 

    The plants and the astronauts grow

    in Botany Bay (oh no)

 

    For here I’m in

    My little Hab

    With half a life

    And half a lab

 

    And half a mind

    to cause me hurt

    But there’s stuff growing

    In the dirt.

   

    The plants and the astronauts grow

    in Botany Bay (oh no)

 

Log Entry: Sol 751 

    I…for a few hours today I forgot…my name.

    I don’t really need a name here.  There’s no one to call it. I don’t _need_ to remember who I am.

    But Mars has taken so much from me, and that name was _mine_ and I wanted it back.

    So I tried to find out what it was.  I kind of looked at my jumpsuit and thought I must be Johanssen.  But I wanted to know my first name so I started searching through everyone’s stuff and I got so confused.  Am I Vogel? Am I Lewis? Am I Watney?

    Watney sounds right, but I didn’t want to be him, so I decided to just give myself a new one.  I didn’t feel right stealing someone else’s. And what name did my messed up brain come up with?

    …Laika.

    Thanks, brain.

    So now I’m a dog.  Sent into space just to see if they could, and died from overheating within hours.

    I’m gonna rename Rover 2 to Sputnik 2.  It’s what I deserve.

 

Log Entry: Sol 760 

    Did you know the name Mark is derived from the Latin name Martkos, which means sacred to the god of Mars?

    You could’ve fooled me, Mars.  You could’ve fucking fooled me.

 

Log Entry: Sol 792 

    I haven’t slept in two days.

    The storm was really violent this time.  Because of the radiation shield (dirt) I haven’t really heard much from outside.  But the wind was so strong it was actually _loud_ and the top part of the Hab (where it’s just loose soil) was visibly moving.

    I thought for sure the whole thing was gonna collapse.  But here I am, still alive, only slightly messed up as a result.  Like usual.

    But now I have to go out and clean the solar panels and I.   _Can’t_.

    I’ve been standing in the airlock for an hour, I’ve checked my suit twelve times, I’m wasting the filter but I can’t…make myself go out.

    I have to if I don’t want to die.  Reserve power isn’t gonna last forever.  C’mon, Watney. C’mon, Laika. Just open it.  Open it.

    …but what if it explodes?

    God, what if it explodes, I can’t go through that again.

    My hand is shaking over the decompression switch.

    Do it.

    My hand moves on its own but I don’t know what it did because my eyes are screwed shut and I’m just trying to keep breathing.

    The schwoop of decompression sounds.  Nothing explodes.

    Just keep breathing, Watney.

    Okay?  …okay.

    Now go clean the damn solar panels.

    If you get through this without dying you can have ketchup on your potato tonight.

 

Log Entry: Sol 850 

    For the last few sols I’ve been living on Voyager, stuck in the damn Delta Quadrant.  Everything’s a little bleak because we’re seventy light-years away from Earth and at least three different species are actively trying to kill us.

    But it’s not all doom and gloom.  Just last week we made first contact with a telepathic species, and today we got to explore a really cool nebula.

    The plants I have growing in the airponics bay are doing well.  One of them is bigger than the other, but I’m confident that both will eventually get to full size.  The doctor will be happy - the sap makes surprisingly effective anti-inflammatory medication when properly prepared.

    My work for the day is done, so I head to the mess hall.  For dinner, Neelix is cooking…some kind of Leola root soup.  He insists its delicious, drinking from his own bowl as he stirs the pot, as if that’ll convince anyone.

    I caved and had pizza last week, so I only have enough replicator rations for like…a potato.  I look at the soup, considering.

    Across the hall, Ensign Yates catches my eye and shakes his head frantically.

    …potato will be fine.

 

Log Entry: Sol 851 

    ..Damn, what I wouldn’t give for a replicator right now.  I don’t care what systems I’d have to disconnect to make it work.

 

Log Entry: Sol 851 (2) 

    We’re under attack from the Borg.  We’re evacuating this deck, but they’re after us, it’s hopeless.  We’ll never get to the Jefferies tube on time. I might as well just give in.  Maybe I can distract them long enough for the others to get away.

    …after all, I’m supposed to be the one left behind.  Just another red shirt.

    For once I’m okay with it.  I’ll be left behind, but not left alone.  I’ll be with the collective. Millions of others will be connected with me, and we’ll all work towards a common goal.  I don’t care if they sap the personality out of me. You can have it. I just want to be with people again.

    I’m okay with being a drone.

    Resistance is…not necessary.

    I’m a drone now.

    We are the Borg.

 

Log Entry: Sol 851 (3) 

    I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, Captain, you’re right.

    We’ve come too far to be stopped by dust.


	9. Moving to a New Apartment

Log Entry: Sol 961 

    I can’t remember anyone’s face.

    I know what Beck and Johanssen look like, their photos are still up and they’re in some of them.  But Lewis and Vogel only have pictures of other people, and Martinez…Martian Martinez hasn’t resurfaced.

    I don’t know what my face looks like either.

    I could watch my logs, if I really wanted to know, but I don’t.  I don’t want to know what I look like now. I bet I don’t even look human.  Maybe I’m not. Maybe I never was.

    I spend a lot of time just lying down and trying to remember things now.  Moving is a chore. I think if I didn’t have the ferns to check on once a day I’d just never get up.  And then I’d be fucked.

    I’ve already done it today, but I force myself to get up anyway.  I study them carefully. Yep. Still green.

    I look at the paperclip.  I look at the coffee cups.  I do not look at the fridge.

    Maybe I don’t even have a face.

    …but then how am I eating these fucking potatoes?

 

Log Entry: Sol 1000 

    414 more fucking sols until I see real, non-hallucinated people again.

    …Unless the Ares program was canceled, or put on hold for a few years.

    But We Do Not Think of That.

    340 sols until I leave this fucking Hab for good.  You better not kill me.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1033 

    I don’t know why I’m here.  What is this place? Why can’t I leave?

    All I know is I can’t go outside.  I cannot go outside. But why? Why not?  What monster waits for me beyond this canvas wall?

    Am I doomed to an eternity of solitude?  Is this a punishment for some crime I have committed?

    …If this is all there is for me, then I should just inject the contents of this needle into my thigh and be done with it.

    If my captors don’t have anything to say to me then I will.  You have until tomorrow, specters. Then I am finished. One way or another, I am finished.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1034 

    Get a fucking grip, Watney.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1034 (2) 

    Also, shut the fuck up Mars, Beck, Martinez.  I see you there in the corner trying not to laugh, Lewis.  Get the fuck out of here. Go back to your precious _Earth_.

    Jesus, Watney.  Stop going crazy.  Stop it. Stop.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1052 

    The days are blending into one

    I’ve lost track of the time

    My brain is on, but doesn’t run

    And I’ve misplaced my mind.

 

    I’ve been in here for far too long,

    I think I might go mad.

    But if I play another song

    It’s really not that bad.

 

    (Don’t tell them that you can’t be saved

    Don’t scream, don’t crack, just smile and wave)

 

    For in two hundred eighty-eight

    sols that never end

    I’ll leave, arrive, ask if I’m late,

    and start to live again.

 

    (Don’t tell them that you can’t be saved

    Don’t scream, don’t crack, just smile and wave)

 

Log Entry: Sol 1104 

    I’m going to Schiaparelli in 236 sols.  I am going. To Schiaparelli. And Ares 4 will be there.

    I need something, _anything_ to do, and I haven’t stood up today, so I’m gonna pack.  236 more sols and I’m packing now. Mom would be so proud.

    …if she didn’t think I was dead.

    I still have a little bit of dry shampoo left.  I’d been rationing it, and when the airlock blew, some of it just kind of disappeared.  But I found a packet under Sojourner’s back left wheel, so that’s going in the carry-on bag.  I’m gonna use it right before I get out of Sputnik 2 for the last fucking time. …I’ll still stink to high heaven, but at least I’ll have made an effort.

    I think I can stick most of the soil samples on the roof.  It’ll be a tight fit, and I’ll have to really secure them with extra duct tape, but I think it’ll be fine.  My ferns can squeeze into Sputnik 1 with the oxygenator and atmospheric regulator. They’re still small enough that they should fit.

    Lewis’ rocks were a bigger problem though.  There’s just nowhere to put them. At least there wasn’t, until in frustration I kicked Sojourner (sorry, Soji) and it rolled a little.

    …oh yeah.  It has wheels, doesn’t it?

    So I broke a tray off one of the lab tables and resin-glued it on top, and now I have a small cart-thing big enough for the armful of rocks I collected.  Once the rocks are on it I’m gonna glue a sample bag over it so nothing gets out if I go down a steep hill or something. Then I’ll use some leftover wire to attach it to the back of Sputnik 1 so it’ll just kinda roll along behind.  Like a kid filling his wagon with library books.

    …man, I wish I had some red spray paint.  …not that it would work outside, and it would be a Bad Idea to use it in this non-ventilated tent…Bah.

    I’m packing the laptops in an insulated bag with the RTG next to it, so hopefully they can make it to the rover without the screens getting all messed up.  I’m going to back them all up first though, and also all the logs and scientific data, onto some flash drives. Actually six flash drives. Which I’ll upload to the rover as soon as I get in.  Just in case.

    There’s over 3TB of information on here, most of it mine.  This is gonna take a while to copy.

    Well…if there’s one thing I have too much of…

 

Log Entry: Sol 1121 

    Shut the fuck up, Mars.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1152 

    I know you don’t want to.  I know. But if you eat this potato, Mark, you get to live.  And you get to see people. And they won’t be expecting you.

    You’re gonna put every surprise party in existence to _shame_.  Picture the look on their faces.

    NASA’s gonna flip.

    Don’t you want to live to see those reactions?

    Eat the potato, Mark.  I know you’re hungry.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1206 

    I was playing Life on Mars and I honestly don’t remember writing most of this content.  I mean, it’s coherent and all, so I guess I wasn’t totally out of it, but this…?

    Mark Watney saw a face in a rock when he set up the solar panels.  Halfway to Mawrth crater, he just walked off after a hallucination and died.

    After all that.

    I’d like to say it’s not going to happen.  This isn’t something I need to worry about.  But…

    I’ve lost track of a lot of time.  These logs are getting pretty far spaced out (weak ha) because I am getting pretty spaced out.  Just overall spacey. Just far out, man. …alright, I’m done.

    The point is, I don’t know that I can trust myself not to follow a dream into the distance and die.  And that worries me. Everything could go perfectly the whole trip and I could still die because my brain got distracted by _a squirrel_.

    Unacceptable.

    I’m going to see if I can hook up some sort of proximity alarm.  Like they have in nursing homes. For old people who wander too far from their beds.

    Stay near the rover, Watney.  Unless you want to hear an obnoxious beeping noise in your helmet.

    …lemme see if I can get the oxygenator alarm going again.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1288 

    Ares 4 should be leaving Earth today.

    Ares 4 is leaving Earth today.

    They’re gonna be there.

    They’re gonna _be_ there.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1300 

    I made it to another round number.

    Well done, Watney.

    …don’t think about it.

    Have some ketchup.  No…fuck it. Eat a ration.  A real one. With _food_ in it.  The whole thing.  You deserve it.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1337 

    Haha, 1337.  You kids remember 1337, right?  …no? …wait, seriously?

    Shit I’m old.

    Anyway, so I’m leaving for Schiaparelli in 3 sols and I am _freaking out_.  Everything has been packed and tested repeatedly.  Everything is working. It’s gonna be fine.

    But my brain is all, “what if it’s not fine, Watney?  What if the program was canceled or the sun goes out or a meteor falls and kills you dead?”

    Oh my goddd it’s fine it’s gonna be fine, shut uppp.

    I’m so anxious I almost want to just leave now.  I could. But I don’t want to leave the Hab. I haven’t left the Hab in _so long_ , and it feels like the only safe place on this planet.  My one bubble of atmosphere and food and entertainment. I’m scared to leave it.

    That and wide open spaces tend to weird me out now.  So it’s gonna take a while to get used to…y’know… _windows_.  And being able to see into the distance.

    I did manage to hook up a proximity alarm thing and stuck it in my main suit helmet and have it connected to Sputnik 2.  So I shouldn’t…I _shouldn’t_ go wandering off after some dream and die.

    And I’ve packed all the medical crap just in case.

    And I actually have some extra food, hopefully.  I have some real food rations left for when things get dicey and I need the energy.

    I’ve even decided in advance to go down the ramp at Schiaparelli crater at a 5km crawl, because it would be just like fucking Mars to screw me over right at the end, and I don’t want to risk that.

    Also I am bringing every goddamn pillow and blanket with me.

    I spent all of yesterday hunting frantically for Martian Martinez.  I know it’s just a photo, but I didn’t want to leave him here, on Mars.  I know what that’s like and I don’t want that to happen to my best alien buddy.  But he’s gone, he’s just gone.

    The Mars flag sits proudly on Sojourner with Lewis’ rock samples.

    Everything is ready.  Nothing will go wrong.

    …I still don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight though.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1339 

    It’s tomorrow.  It’s _tomorrow_.

    I couldn’t sleep yestersol, so I made myself a poncho out of Hab canvas.  That is, I took some Hab canvas and I cut a hole into it so my head can fit.  And then I cut a strip of it to wrap around my head like a scarf. I feel weird leaving my radiation-shield, and I know the drive probably won’t give me cancer or anything, but I figure the extra protection can’t hurt.

    I keep looking around the Hab, drinking it in, every last detail.  I’m going to drive off tomorrow morning and never see it again.

    …it’s a mess.  There’s a half demolished shit-dirt castle on one side.  One of the beds is a bathtub. Lab equipment is strewn everywhere.  Bright green emergency ribbons all over the place.

    …I fucking love this place.  I can’t believe I’m gonna miss it.  I scribbled a last “fuck you Mars” on the wall.  I took a few photos to remember it by. I know I’m going to have horrible flashbacks about this Hab and will probably never want to go camping ever, ever again.  But right now it’s the place that kept me alive when I should have died a thousand times. And I love it. I owe it.

We both lived longer than we were meant to.

    I have to sleep.  One last night in this place.

    …thanks, Hab.


	10. No Sunscreen

Log Entry: Sol 1340

Slowly, carefully, reverently, I go through the ritual of shutting down the Hab.  Sleep well, computers. Farewell, water reclaimer. So long, reserve O2 tank. You fucker.  Goodnight, lightbulbs. Sorry for not turning you off, ever. Thanks for not burning out on me.

Once everything was shut down, I stood in the dark, quiet Hab and held a minute of silence.

…I think it was a minute, anyway.  My sense of time is all fucked up so it’s hard to tell.

And then the minute was over.  I looked at it, one last time. It already felt abandoned, haunted.

I hope my ghosts stay here.

I turn and march to the airlock.  I don’t hesitate this time, just slam the decompression switch and wait for it to blow me up, dare it to blow me up.  …but Mars is a coward; it attacks you when you’re comfortable, when things are going well and your back is turned and you’re not expecting it.  It doesn’t like confrontation. So I didn’t blow up. 

Damn straight.

I’ve got all my lifesaving equipment, and non-lifesaving science stuff packed into the rovers.  I’ve got my solar panels, my food, my laptops, a  _ massive _ amount (6) of pillows to sit on, and I’ve got my shovel guitar.  We are go for launch.

I wish I had some shades to wear.  The poncho takes away from my coolness a bit.  Eh, it’s a look. This fashion is all the rage on Mars.

Let’s floor it.

…floor it here means move the sticky thing forward and trundle along at 25 kilometers an hour.

I floor it.

I do not look back.

 

Sol 1341

I can’t see the Hab.  I can’t see the Hab. If something fucks up I have no safe space to run to.

Calm down, calm down it’s fine.

You’d be in more trouble if you could see the Hab.  Keep driving. It’s gonna be okay.

Nothings gonna go wrong.  Certainly not fatally wrong.  And anyway, that’s what the morphine is for.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1342

Are we there yet?

 

Log Entry: Sol 1343

Are we there yet?

 

Log Entry: Sol 1344

Jesus fuck are we there yettt?

 

Log Entry: Sol 1346

Oh the rover may roll,

And the weather takes its toll

Mars may bend my feeble body but

will never break my soul.

 

And I swear I’ll survive

Though they don’t know I’m alive

Missed my flight 1000 sols ago

So now I have to drive.

 

And you know that it’s a long way home,

for a broken shell to roam.

 

Oh the landscape is bleak

And I don’t have much to eat

Every part of me is aching and

I’m pretty sure I reek.

 

And this planet of red,

will not stop until I’m dead

And I might kill myself tomorrow, but

today I’ll go to bed.

 

And you know that it's a long way home,

for a broken shell alone.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1349

Oh hey, Mawrth Vallis, what’s up?

I still have some energy and space for more soil samples.

The landscape is beautiful, so I took a photo.  And then I took a selfie. Because I _ can _ , and when I’m in the EVA suit and you can’t see my body I look like I could be healthy.  I am not healthy. But damn it’s a nice view. I can’t look at it for too long or I’ll start to get uncomfortable though.

Everything is working beautifully.  The solar panels are perfect. The RTG is warm.  The atmospheric regulator is atmospheric regulating.  The oxygenator is…wait, what does that one do again? The potatoes are crap and I have exactly one packet of ketchup left.  But I don’t care because I am  _ this close _ to never eating another one again.

The drive is almost fun.  The sitting around for 12 hours while the batteries recharge kinda sucks, but luckily I’ve gotten pretty good at sitting on my ass and not doing anything.

When I’m not sleeping I play Life on Mars and when that stresses me out I listen to Beck’s lecture notes.  When I’m bored of that (never, really, people sounds are all I live for) I imagine my first real conversation in years.  I plan my responses to unasked questions, I prepare jokes, I brainstorm the best way to hide how cracked up I am. I wrap the blankets around me, lie down on the pillows and pretend I’m getting hugged.

It’s not as sad as it sounds.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1356

I am a renegade.  I’ve stolen the plans to their weapon.  It is vital they get delivered. Lives depend upon it.

I’m exhausted, sleep pulling at my soul, body pleading for rest.  But I have to keep going. I have to drive. If they catch me I will die.  Millions will die.

I must get the plans to the Schiaparelli base.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1357

…you gotta be fucking kidding me.  I got a flat. The Galactic Empire is gonna catch me  _ for sure. _

 

Log Entry: Sol 1370

So.  ... _ so. _

Guess what I saw today?  No, no, not a rock. A  _ sun _ .

Now you may be thinking “So what, Watney?  That's supposed to be there. It keeps us all alive, makes us warm and powers our franken-vehicles, remember?  You goin' bonkers again?”

Nooo.  I'm  _ not _ , thank you.

Anyway, it wasn't so much the sun that I saw, as what was attached to it.  Which was, of course, a bit of sun. Sort of flaring out of it. It was a flare, is what I'm saying.  I saw a solar flare. Which means I'm fucked.

“Now hang on, Watney,” you may say, “so what?  They're barely inconvenient. Okay, they might knock out a few satellites, but it's not like the satellites are watching you anyway, what's the deal?”

Oh you, faceless NASA employee.  So sweet. So innocent. So oblivious.

To someone on Earth, solar flares are usually no big deal.  Because you have that thing. You know, that thing? The one that you have that I don't because I'm on MARS?

Anyway, your atmosphere protects you.  What knocks out the satellites isn't the light or heat of the flare, it's what typically comes after it, The Coronal Mass Ejection.  That's a fancy word for giant mass of energetic radioactive particles flying through space at ludicrous speeds.

And, as you may have guessed, that sort of thing is Very Not Good for unprotected starving astronauts abandoned on alien planets.

Luckily, although it only takes about 20 minutes for the light of a solar flare to reach Mars, the CME takes about 4-7 days.  Which means I have a little under four sols to construct some sort of shelter to protect me from some very unpleasant radiation.  Hab canvas ain't gonna cut it here.

They usually don't last that long, but I'm gonna hide in my shelter thing for two sols just to be sure it passes before I keep moving.  Which is a grand total of nine sols of delay.

...ughh.  I'm nearing the end of Mawrth Vallis, I'm a sol or two away from the crater.  But that won't help me. The valley might...I could dig a sort of garage in the side of the wall to park in.  The dirt should be pretty compact here, so it probably won't collapse on me. But there's no way to seal off the entrance without trapping myself.

Bleh.  Think later, dig now.  You only have four days, Watney, let's go.

...

Oh.

...I'm gonna have to cannibalize my guitar, aren't I.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1371

Digging.  Sucks. I can't believe I had to break my vow to never do this again.  If I die of radiation anyway I'm gonna scream.

This seems a lot harder than it was last time.  Not just because the dirt is harder (although it is) but also because of the whole starving thing.  I’m only about a third through. I’ve been bribing myself with proper rations to get through it, but if that’s helping I can’t tell.  Everything hurts. And you can bet I’m going to be complaining about this as much as my body is.

I’m digging my tunnel perpendicular to the valley wall.  Partly so I only have a smallish hole to cover behind me, but mostly because…well…have you ever tried to parallel park a three piece trailer with stuff duct-taped all over it?  On Mars? Yeah, me neither. And I really don’t wanna.

But I do have to dig the tunnel a bit wider so I can still get out.  And I’ll need to get out, so I can fill the entrance back up with dirt from the inside, and so I can dig myself back out once the danger passes.

I won’t be driving anywhere, so the power to the oxygenator and atmospheric regulator should hold out.  But I’ll probably have to recharge again afterwards. Great.

So that’s going to be fun and not claustrophobic at all.

Nothing has collapsed thus far, so I have high hopes that this will work.  I mean, I kind of have to, right?

…that would be a pretty dramatic twist, though.  Astronaut Mark Watney spends 1371 sols fighting Mars, only to be killed at the last minute by the Sun.  The forgettable secondary character, introduced early on, periodically resurfacing just to remind you it’s there.  The perfect assassin that nobody saw coming.

It’s not going to kill me, though.  This is going to work. Probably.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1372

UghhHHhhh shut up Marsssss

 

Log Entry: Sol 1372 (2)

Digging suuucks.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1373

…fucking Martinez standing there telling me to lift from the knees.

My knees are just as messed as my back, buddy.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1373 (2)

I was tired of digging so I’m taking a break and troubleshooting my current situation by playing  Life on Mars .  I don’t remember writing in a solar flare, but apparently I did because I was able to set it off by leaving the lights on in the Hab when Mark left it.

Anyway, little Mark Watney is digging himself a big ‘ole hole, just like I am!  Hope this works for you buddy!

 

Log Entry: Sol 1373 (3)

…he died.

…

Fuck you, game.  I’m gonna dig anyway.

Not like I have other options.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1373 (4)

I’m almost done.  I just need to park and reseal the opening.  Tomorrow. Then I get to sit in the dark for five sols with only my potatoes for company.  And my disco. And my ghosts.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1374

I’m like a ghost inside your walls,

But I have ghosts that I can call

and they advise me (did I ask?)

to let it go, this too shall pass.

 

And though I’m more than six feet deep,

There are no coffins where I sleep

It may be dark where I reside,

But know the sun is still outside.

 

I did not survive starvation

To be killed by radiation.

I don’t need no locomotion

with my Solanum Tuberosum

 

Log Entry: Sol 1375

This is just like camping.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, and I guess it’s better than literal torture, but oh god can we not do this again, ever?  Because I was promised fun days at the beach but it’s been raining for two days straight, we haven’t left the tent since we got here and the raccoons stole all the good food so all we have left are packets of instant noodles and a single peanut.

Of course in this analogy, the rain is actually waves of deadly radiation, the tent is a car-sized rover in a hole in the wall that may or may not collapse and I would  _ kill _ for a packet of instant noodles.

But there’s no cell reception, I haven’t showered in forever and I have ghosts for mosquitoes.  So yeah. Camping.

I was trying not to think about how much harder it is to breathe in the dark (even though the oxygen levels are the same) so I thought about Schiaparelli.

Nobody’s expecting me to be there.  Even though I’m an uninvited mouth to feed, NASA sends double rations for redundancy, so that won’t be an issue.  A bigger issue would be the extra seat on the MAV, but they’re clever people, they’ll figure something out. I don’t care if I have to pretend to be a rock sample or duct tape myself to the outside, one way or another I’m going with them.

…you know what that’s going to make me?

…wh-  _ no, _ not a pirate, where are you getting this stuff from, jeez, Martinez.

It’ll make me a hitchhiker.  Mark Watney. Space hitchhiker.  Walking in the footsteps of Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent.  Just stick your thumb out and catch a lift from the nearest passing spacecraft.

I hope the planet blows up behind me.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1376

Y’know, I expected sandstorms.  I thought to myself, “this is a long journey, something’s gonna fuck up.  It’ll probably be the weather. The sun will be blocked out by dust and I won’t be able to charge and if I’m lucky enough sun will filter through to keep life support on, and if not I’ll just die.

I expected the rover to hit a patch of loose sand and sink.  I expected it to hit a ditch and flip. I expected the door to get stuck.  I expected to go completely batshit crazy, do something really stupid, and die.

But  _ this _ ?  This invisible enemy that I could easily have not noticed and then I’d just kind of flop over and not get back up?

Just…eat a sock, Sun.  I know I owe you, I know you kept me alive, but seriously?  Seriously?

And, as always, fuck you too, Mars.

I’m gonna tell whatever artist designs the cover for  Life on Mars to make you look stupid.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1378

Space caveman.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1378 (2)

I am so.  Sick. Of potatoes.

I have been staring at this last ketchup packet like a teenager stares at their phone on 1% battery.

I  _ need _ this ketchup packet.  But will I die without it?  What if I need it more later?

I stayed alive more than once to prevent Mars from getting any of my ketchup.  If I eat this last packet, what’s left to live for?

…besides other people I mean.  And the possibility of rescue. And getting the death ray plans to the right government organizations.

Anyway, the moral of the story is potatoes fucking suck.  And so does the sun. And so does space. …’Cause it’s a vacuum, get it?

Tomorrow I’m gonna dig myself out of here and never touch a shovel again.  Seriously, if there’s another solar flare on the way I’ll just have to take the radiation and accept my fate as a superhero.

…or possibly a super villain.  I do want to blow up a planet.


	11. No One Home

Log Entry: Sol 1379

Space caveman Mark Watney has left his space cave.

And man, the world is  _ bright _ .  Sure wish I had those cool sunglasses.  I’m tempted to wear the EVA helmet (just the helmet- I don’t want to waste the filters) with the visor down.  But that would look stupid. …says the man wearing a tarp.

I wish I could go straight back to driving but after 5 sols of sitting around I need to recharge again, so it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.  But that’s okay I guess, because I was supposed to die and I  _ didn’t _ !  Death swung at me with a scythe and I ducked down to look at a rock.  It feels pretty awesome.

I mean, don’t get me wrong.  I still want to die, all day every day.  But sometimes I want to stay alive just a little longer so I can watch Death try again, and miss, and look like a moron.  You’re incompetent, Death, just like your father! Just admit you’ve gotten too old for this job and retire.

I should hit Mawrth crater tomorrow, and then it’s just a short 15 sols or so to Schiaparelli crater.

I’m putting on Beck’s notes again.  The shuffling papers and muted echoes of the lecture hall always relax me.  I’m gonna try to get some sleep on my stabby back so I have enough energy tomorrow to point the driving stick forward.

See you in the morning!

 

Log Entry: Sol 1380

Onwaaard!

 

Log Entry: Sol 1382

It’s getting harder and harder not to open that ketchup packet.  I was fiddling with the corner of it for five minutes before I realized what I was doing.  I’ve hidden it under the shovel. If I want it I’m going to have to touch  _ that _ to get to it now.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1387

Guess what I saw while setting up the solar panels today!

…no, not a Martian, Martinez or otherwise.  Nor a solar flare. But if you guessed ‘rock’, then ding ding you are correct!

It was really cool!  It was pretty small, but it was almost purple-y.  I have never seen a purple rock on Mars, it would have been neat to study.  Is it something in the atmosphere or soil in this particular part of the planet that caused it to change colour?  Is it from another part of the planet and it blew here somehow? Is it an alien artifact posing as part of the landscape to fool unsuspecting astronauts traveling across the planet in a tin can?  Who knows?

…I don’t know.  I wanted to go grab it and add it to the rock samples, it’s small enough for it, but when I got about 10 meters from the rovers the proximity alarm started blaring.  And oh my god, if you think it’s loud in the Hab, it is  _ fucking loud _ when it’s right next to your head.

I stepped back closer to the rovers to make it shut up and stared at the rock for a while.  It’s not that far. It’s not like… _ very _ out of reach.  And it would make for good science.

But I don’t want to get used to the “don’t wander off after a hallucination and die, Mark” sound effect.  The whole point of it is to stop me from chasing something and forget where I parked. The rock doesn’t look that far now, but there’s a slim chance it’s not actually there and it’ll just get farther away when I walk towards it.  And time doesn’t work for me anymore, so I could walk for a long time without knowing it.

…so I was a good boy and stayed next to the rovers.

Anyway, I’ve done enough science stuff to satisfy Earth’s scientists for a lifetime.  One rock won’t make a difference there.

…even if it is purple.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1395

I’ve finally gotten to the edge of Schiaparelli crater!  I’m on the north-western part of it, where the slope down into it is gentlest, and the temptation to just  _ floor it _ is unbelievable.  And the temptation to misuse a solar panel and frigging  _ toboggan _ down is even more unbelievable.

It wouldn’t really work that well, it’s not steep enough for that (which is why I’m on this part of the crater to begin with) and you can’t pick up much speed in 0.4g.  But how cool would “went sledding on Mars” look on a resume?

But anyway, past me promised the gods of traffic jams that present me wouldn’t do anything stupid, so I’m crawling forward at 5km/hr.  In my Frankenrover. Like a  _ commoner _ .

School zone speed limits and Sunday drives are looking pretty good now.  Here’s to you, Dad.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1397

I see a rock.  Is it a rock?

Should I drive closer?  It’s too far to walk.

I heard a knock.  Heard someone talk.

Just out the rover, past the airlock.

 

I see a face, so out of place,

on the horizon, I could give chase.

I start to pace, I can’t erase

black holes behind me fall into space.

 

But no.  Just point the rover, south-south east and fucking go.

Don’t start to wonder if there’s something you don’t know.

The truth is you are just hallucinating (wasn’t that illuminating)

Your brain’s miscommunicating, so.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1400

Seriously,  _ seriously _ , don’t be video game Mark Watney.  The guy’s a moron.

You’re going to get to the MAV tomorrow.  You can actually  _ see _ it now and you know you’re not hallucinating that because you’ve checked your math and the map ten times.  It’s there. So just wait it out.

I know that moving blob to the left is tempting to go look at, but don’t.  Fucking. Do it.

You barely have the energy to pull out the solar panels now, what makes you think you can make it fifty or so meters anyway?

…also try not to talk to yourself so much, you don’t want to look completely crazy when you get there.

_ I _ don’t, I mean.  I don’t want to look…oh, just go back to sleep, Mark.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1401

I’m crying.

Yeah, I do that a lot now, shut up.  It’s been an emotional time, I can’t help it.

But I’m at the Ares 4 MAV now and I’m crying because that’s it, that’s as far as I have to go, my work is done, I just have to wait now.  I don’t know exactly how far away their supplies will land, or how close to here their Hab will be, but you can bet the first thing they’re going to do when they get to the surface is check on the MAV.  Or…the pilot will, anyway, the others will probably be setting stuff up.

So all I have to do is  _ sit here _ and they will find me.  And they must know I’m alive now because even if NASA somehow missed my crazy train journey to get here, you can bet their satellites will be regularly checking to make sure their mission critical spaceship hasn’t tipped over.  And what is sitting next to their shiny new MAV? …me, in all my solar panel reflective glory.

Just the knowledge that I don’t have to fold them back away in the morning is enough to get me going, but thinking that somewhere out there on Earth,  _ finally _ , my parents won’t be mourning me anymore has me bawling into my pillow like a child.  I bet they’re pissed as hell.

Tomorrow I’m going to light up the MAV and say hello.  Today I’m going to eat my second to last ration pack. I am so tired, but I’m going to bed happy for the first time in years, because even if I die right now they’ll have my logs, and my work, and someone will know what happened.

But I’m not going to die now.

I’m just going to sleep.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1402

Oh, fuck you, NASA.

Fuck me too, for forgetting about that.

You see, long space missions like this are still pretty new, so astronauts are at higher risk for all kinds of mental issues we haven’t encountered before and don’t know how to deal with.  The powers that be were always a bit afraid that one of us would go completely space crazy and do something like walk out an airlock without a suit (bad), attack a fellow astronaut (also bad), or fly off in the only spaceship leaving the rest of the team on the planet (very extremely bad).  I myself have been seriously tempted to do the first and am a victim of the third, so I see their point, but…

To prevent astronauts from just willy-nilly abandoning their crew on a desolate planet, NASA created an activation code to switch on the MAV that only the pilot and the commander would have.

The Ares 4 MAV would probably have had a different code anyway, but even if it’s the same, I’m not high enough on the command ladder to have had it.  Which means I can’t turn on the MAV. Which means I can’t talk to anyone. Fucking again.

I mean…it’s not a  _ huge _ deal, but I was really looking forward to gloating and cracking jokes and pretending to be normal over the keyboard, so they can’t see me shake and I could pretend for a while that I’m alright.

12 more sols of solitude (ha) where I don’t have to do anything doesn’t seem like a big deal compared to the 1396 sols of fighting for my life I’ve already done, but right now it seems unbearable.  Like an introvert who was at a huge party all night, and they’re home now, but if they have to make small talk with one more fucking person they’re gonna scream.

But it’s…it’s not okay, but it’s okay.  They’re gonna be here, and they’re gonna find me.  I’ll just have to give them a stern talking to about their moronic safety policies later.

This potato is for you guys.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1405

I am so bored and on edge c’moon is it Christmas yet?

 

Log Entry: Sol 1407

I’m going to rewrite  Life on Mars to make NASA a little more heartless.  And I’m writing in that Teddy Sanders has a goatee.  Serves you right.

If you didn’t want to be the bad guy, you should’ve turned on Pathfinder.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1413

It’s  _ tomorrow _ .  It’s tomorrow it’s tomorrow it’s tomorrow it’s TOMORROW!!

I’m so fucking excited I could scream and do a crazy dance.  If I had that kind of energy, which I don’t.

I  _ miss _ my old RTG bath.  I know it didn’t really get me completely clean (hard to do that when you’re covered in dirt and don’t have soap) but I feel like it did at least help me smell a bit less…smelly.  Oh well. Ares 4’s just gonna have to deal.

Still, out of respect for the brave astronauts who haven’t had to smell like shit for the last four years, I dug out my dry shampoo and attempted to clean my hair with it.  I would have just shaved it off entirely, but I kind of…forgot the electric razor back at the Hab? Oops. Anyway, I’m not going back for it.

And then I sat in Sputnik 2 and stared at the MAV.  It’s beautiful. It’s majestic. It’s  _ there _ .

And then I got bored.  And I though “fuck it, I’ve been really,  _ really _ good with my CO2 filters, I deserve to be a little wasteful” so I snuck out and stuck an out of order sign on it.

…well, more like an out of order post-it, but it’s the thought that counts.

It’s dark now, and I know I’m not going to get any sleep.  This is my last night alone. I’m eating the last ration pack, and tomorrow I will have another one, from another mission.  One that won’t even be stale or expired. It’ll be glorious.

I’m just gonna sit here in this rover for the last time, and watch the sun rise.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1414

The sun has  _ risen _ .  And here I still am, alive and very smug about it.  Come and get me.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1414 (2)

Come and get me  _ now _ .

 

Log Entry: Sol 1414 (3)

C’mon, it’s midday, time’s a wastin’, tick tock.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1414 (4)

I swear if you don’t come check on the MAV  _ right now _ I’m going to string up green emergency ribbons on it and it’ll look  _ really stupid _ .  Come.  Get. Me.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1414 (5)

Shut up, Mars.  Shut up shut up shut up shut up.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1414 (6)

…The sun is going down.  This isn’t happening. I’m…I’m hallucinating the sunset.  There’s no other explanation. I’m hallucinating or my dates are off or something but they’re here.  They’re gonna be here. They HAVE to BE here.

 

Sol 1415

They’re not here.

I want to believe they’re still coming, but they’re not here.

Martinez is sitting next to me, all sad and apologetic and for once not saying a word.

They’re not here.

I guess this is it.  NASA has disappointed me for the last time, and Mars has won.

I’ve been staring numbly at the morphine needle all day, and I don’t even want to use it.  It’s been so hard,  _ so hard _ getting this far.  The whole point of having the morphine was so I wouldn’t have to needlessly suffer (needle-less-ly).  But I have suffered. Every day, I’ve suffered. I don’t remember what it’s like to not be in pain. And having this…soft, painless death that I can use…feels like it would trivialize all that.

Oh sure, Mark Watney endured four years of isolation and starvation.  But in the end he took the easy way out. It didn’t even hurt.

No.  I’m going to die like I lived.  In stubborn, heart-wrenching agony.  I’m going to die on Mars, fine. I accept that,  _ fine. _  But it will not be my fault.  It will not be  _ my choice. _  I do not accept that responsibility.  I’m not going to use the morphine. I don’t want it, not even a little.

I reach behind the pile of laptops next to me and move the shovel (gross gross, you’re  _ touching it _ ).  Behind it lays the last ketchup packet.

I grab it, I open it.

I settle myself comfortably on my pile of pillows and blankets and look up, over the cold dead Martian landscape.  The wide open space a reminder of the terrifying void above it, the silence menacing, the distant volcanoes quietly promising to bury me.

I eat the ketchup straight.

I’ll be damned if I eat another fucking potato.

I’m just going to lie here until I don’t have the energy to keep my eyes open, and then I’m going to close them, and then I’m going to die.  I did my best, I really did, but I’m done now. It’s over.

Martinez shifts beside me and lays a ghost-hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry, man,” he says quietly.

My eyes are tearing up and I don’t have the energy to care, so I close them.

“Fuck you, Mars,” I whisper.


	12. Noises

Sol 1417 

    Awareness seeps into me like mud, accompanied by an odd weightless feeling, as though I’m hovering just outside of myself.  An angels chorus is fucking screaming at me. They don’t want to let me in with all my baggage. I can feel it on my back, the weight of tens of thousands of potatoes that I carry with me.

    I don’t want them either, I try to explain.  But I need them. They’re a part of me now. I can’t just put them back.  They’re family. They’re all I have.

    They screech inhumanly as I try to take a step forward.  I’m floating now, but I can barely move under the burden that threatens to crush me.  They close in on me, their rhythmic screaming surround me and drowning out my thoughts.

    No…not screaming…alarm.  Oxygenator alarm. Jesus Christ, I did not sign up for that alarm clock.  Let me go back to sleep. Let me drift off into death. I’ll leave the potatoes behind.  Just stop screaming at me, let me in.

    Mercifully, the sound cuts off.

    My eyes twitch but I don’t open them.  I don’t have the energy to. I don’t want to see the rover.

    Dizziness carries me back to sleep.

 

Sol 1417 

    Martinez is still looking at me sadly when I wake back up.

    I turn my head to squint at him.  Why are we both still fucking here.

    “Hey,” he says quietly.  He’s tearing up a little.  Huh. I didn’t know ghosts could cry.  “How are you feeling?”

    My body is completely numb and I can’t see straight, that’s how I’m feeling.  It’s hard to see him through the nausea and dizziness so I close my eyes again.

    “Well,” I whisper hoarsely, “I’m hallucinating.  So there’s that.”

    For a moment I could believe that his hand is on my head.  For a moment.

    “You’re not hallucinating, Mark.”

    Sure.  Sure Martinez.  “I’ve heard that before,” I mumble.  “I’ve heard that from _you_ before, so spare me.”

    I hear him move beside me, hear the coffee cups in the corner.  He’s not going away, is he? This fucking sucks. Just let me die already.

    I open my eyes a crack and squint up at him.

    I’m tearing up again and I hate myself for it.  He’s still looking at me like that.

    “I wish you were really here,” I whisper.

    “I am, man.  I’m right here.”

    I don’t want to hear it.  I close my eyes and let unconsciousness reclaim me.

 

Sol 1418 

    The sound of machines snake into my head like jumper cables and shock some brain activity back into it.  All I want to do is sleep forever but the damn humming of the oxygenator won’t let me.

    I can’t believe I’m not fucking dead yet.  This is _infuriating_ .  I know I’m good at dodging Death’s scythe, but _come on_.  I’m not even trying.  Hit me already.

    I shift a little in irritation and stretch my legs.  And freeze.

    I’m not sure why my heart is racing like that but suddenly all I can feel is the frantic thudding in my chest and the scowl on my face.  Something is off. I try to make my eyelids open but they won’t cooperate. What is it?

    I lie still, quiet, and try to figure it out.

    Come on, Watney.  Come on Laika. What did you notice?

    Oh.  Shit.  I’m lying down.

    My eyes fly open and I sit up with a gasp.  I’m on a bed. I’m _in the Hab!_  Not my Hab, a new Hab!  A clean one with no holes in it and functioning equipment and-

    “Mark?”

    My head snaps around to look at Martinez.  My eyes are wide open and I’m sure I look every bit the space caveman that I am but I can’t stop staring at him, oh god, he’s _older_.

    He’s looking at me in concern and I can see his mouth moving, asking me something, but I can’t hear it over the rushing in my ears.  I might be a little in shock.

    I lift my hand towards him experimentally.

    He’s out of his chair now, sitting on the edge of the bed with his arms out like he’s afraid I’ll try to get out of it (like I could).  My hand lands on his shoulder. It lands. It _lands_.  My whole body is shaking.

    He’s called someone over now, but I can’t see them, I can’t hear them.  All I can see is the patch of blue uniform my hand is sitting on (not going through, actually touching) and I just pitch forward until I hit something warm and solid.

    Oh my god.  Oh my god. This is real.

    I’m shaking and crying and Martinez has put his arms around me and it feels _so good_ I never want to move again.  Please don’t move. Just stay like this.  Don’t disappear on me like you always do.

    “-bly in shock, I…”

    “…s ok buddy, I got y…”

    “…ears, unbelievable…”

    “Mark.”

    My name makes it through the cacophony but I can’t answer through the shivering and crying and gasping for air.  I’m clutching Martinez (real, actual Martinez) like a lifeline and he’s so warm and soft and _here_.

    The hard shaking eventually dies down to a slight tremble that I can’t quite get under control.  I pull back just enough to be able to look up at him, this ass. I don’t let go. He gives me a watery smile.

    “Hey,” he says.

    Hey, he says.  Four years and that’s his opening line.  Hey. I can’t believe I cried over this guy.  ...I can’t believe I’m still crying.

    “You’re fucking late,” I rasp.  Christ I’m thirsty.

    A water packet magically appears from somewhere and I drink it as quickly as I can without choking on it.  I have _questions_.

    “What took you losers so long,” I gasp out eventually.

    Martinez lets go long enough to settle more fully on the bed next to me.  I lean against him, exhausted. Idly, I glance around the Hab. There’s a tall lab-coat wearing man standing at the end of the bed, but he’s silent for now, letting me get my bearings.  Their doctor, probably. Not Beck.

    Everything looks the same.  The equipment, same. The wall colour, same.  Fridge, probably full, but otherwise same. Same same same.  Even some of the astronauts are the same. For a moment I feel like the last 1412 sols never happened.  This is Ares 3, the mission it should’ve been.

    Then my breath catches as my gaze lands on my soil samples in the corner.  My rock samples are here too, sitting on top of Sojourner, the Mars flag still sticking out of it.  My eyes water, staring at it. The fucking RTG flag that I pulled up back when I still had hope they were watching me.  Back when I was about a century younger. They even brought in the fucking potatoes. This messy pile in their pristine Hab, a reminder of the disaster that was my mission.  The one that’s still going. The one I dragged here, kicking and screaming over rocks and dust, from 3200 kilometers away.

    “You took us so long, actually,” Martinez says.

    What?  Oh, I asked a question, didn’t I?

    My confusion must have shown on my face, because he elaborated without me needing to prod him.

    “NASA was keeping an eye on the MAV and the landing site, just being themselves and minding their own business, really.  When a stray Martian just rolled up next to it like it was no big deal. An actual Martian, can you imagine? And in an act of war against our dear planet, it stuck a post it note on the MAV door,” his eyes are crinkling with laughter and sadness, “and then, _then_ , right before we were supposed to get in the MDV to make first contact with this weird alien species,  it takes out some flashy green ribbons and just goes to town on their multi-million dollar spaceship with it.”

    I frown at the blanket and pull at the corner of it.  “I was mad at you. For being late. It’s healthy to express yourself in non-destructive ways.  All of Beck’s medical notes say so.”

    “Jesus, don’t tell me you listened to that crap,” he laughs.

    I pull the blanket tighter.  My eyes are burning.

    “Sorry,” he says softly.  “Anyway, NASA was sort of afraid you were going to break it and strand us all, so they kept us in orbit for a while until they were sure you weren’t going to do anything else.  And...they work slow. By the time they got the MAV up and running for you, you’d already gone back to the rover.”

    I’m still shaking slightly so I lean in to Martinez more.  He takes the hint and wraps me in a hug.

    “I didn’t have the energy to do anything else,” I mumble, “I was too busy dying.”

    He stiffens.  We sit in near-awkward silence for a moment and everything was still, except for the wind outside.  Standard Martian day. Nothing moving but the dust.

    Martinez sighs and tightens his arms slightly, then relaxes them.  Time resumes its normal course.

    “You nearly did,” he says, quiet.  “…Mark, what _happened_?”

    My eyes are burning again and my muscles tense and I don’t want to answer right now.  I don’t want to have to explain this. My eyes dart around the Hab and land on their doctor.  I try to telepathically convey the need for rescue. He blinks and nods.

    …wait, did I just…no, that’s dumb, Watney.  You probably just said it out loud.

    “I’m afraid story time will have to wait,” he says, smiling apologetically.  He picks up a medkit and moves closer. “Now that you’re awake, Doctor Watney, I’d like to assess your condition a bit more thoroughly.  I’m sure you have all kinds of hidden injuries and I’d like to know what they are so we can get started on a treatment plan.”

    “Okay,” I mumble.  I’m too tired to argue.  I’m supposed to be dead anyway, and my brain is voicing its protest at being dragged in to work past its retirement by not giving me anything witty to say.

    Martinez gets shooed away to go do something or other outside.  I clench my fists in the blanket to stop myself from grabbing at him as he stands.  I miss the extra warmth already. Just the warmth. I don’t miss the first human contact I’ve had in four years, or anything.

    He goes to grab his suit (a slightly different green from the old ones) and for a second he goes back to being a hallucination.

    I stretch my leg out as far as they’ll go to remind myself that this is real.  Their doctor watches me carefully but doesn’t say anything.

    “See you soon, buddy,” Martinez says once he’s suited up.  He steps towards the airlock, then pauses, and turns back. “Don’t go anywhere,” he grins.

    He leaves before my half-firing brain can come up with a retort.  Unfair.

    I stare after him for a beat, then look back at their doctor, patiently waiting for me to notice him.

    “Thanks.”

    He smiles.  “Don’t thank me yet.  I do actually need to check you over.  Could you take your shirt off for me?”

    “I dunno, I think we should get to know each other first,” I manage to croak out.  Ah, brain. Welcome back, I’ve missed you.

    He laughs, and it occurs to me that my brain has a point.

    “What’s your name?”

    “Sorry,” he smiles, holding out his hand for me to shake.  I lift my weak arm up to take it then let it flop back down.  Moving is _hard_. “I’m Liam Graeves, flight surgeon, psychologist and astrophysicist, at your service.  Never thought I’d be making introductions on Mars, but I have to say I’m glad I am.”

    “Tell me about it,” I mumble, pulling my arms through my shirtsleeves.  Wait.

    Liam…really?  I look at him sideways.  His smile freezes and he winces slightly.

    “Liam Graeves?”

    “…yep.”

    “Doctor Graves.”

    “…yeah.”

    “Well dang, that’s a name to put any patient at ease.”

    He shakes his head with a sigh, and moves to help tug the shirt over my head.

    “I get that a lot.”

    I avoid looking down at myself as Graeves digs a stethoscope out of his bag.  I know I’m a mess. I don’t want to know how much of one. Maybe tomorrow.

    “Good thing you went into medicine,” I joke to distract myself, “just add a tombstone and you’ve got yourself an instant Halloween costume.”

    “Where do you think I got the idea,” he smirks, “it was either doctor or undertaker, really.”

    He moves to listen to my heart.  “Breathe deeply. Good.”

    I look over his shoulder at the single coffee cup on one of the lab tables.  Proof of life. As I stare at it, it rattles quietly, menacingly, and moves two centimeters to the left.  You might be among normal people now, Watney, but your crazy has followed you. You are fucked. Don’t let them catch on to this.  My eyes prickle, so I blink and look at the floor instead. That’s enough crying for today.

    “Do you have any pain that’s bothering you a lot?,” he asked, putting away the stethoscope and pulling out a blood pressure monitor.

    I shrug.  “I’ve been trying really hard not to think about it.  I’ve gotten used to ignoring it, so it’s hard to tell what parts hurt more than the rest of me.”

    He hmm’s as he slips the cuff over my arm and squeezes the pump a few times.

    “Think about it,” he says, reading and noting down the results.  “You’re in good hands now, you can relax and we’ll take care of you.  So what hurts, Doctor Watney?”

    I grimace at the title.  “Call me Mark.” Not Laika.  I can be Mark again. Finally.

    “Alright, Mark.  Call me Liam.”

    “Aww.  But Doctor Graeves is such a cool name.  Like a supervillain.”

    I shift around and focus past the buzzing numbness at the base of my skull.  Okay, yeah, ow.

    He pulls the cuff off and puts it down, giving me a stern look.  “Stop deflecting. I see you cringing, Mark, your back is clearly bothering you.  Anything else?”

    Anything else.  Literally everything else.  Everything is pain, my guy.

    “Um.  My knees hurt pretty badly.  Sitting in a cramped rover for 75 sols probably didn’t help there.  Not to mention digging all the damn dirt.”

    His eyes glitter with curiosity, but he motions me to go on.

    “My arms are pretty sore too, but I imagine that’s temporary, and my chest is a bit numb right now, but as soon as I eat something my stomach will be murder.  And I have a headache, which sucks, because I didn’t even get any drunken parties out of it. Everything else kind of hurts too, but my back and knees are the main ones.”

    He nodded and marked that down, then poked at my knees for a bit.

    “Okay.  Your right knee is a bit inflamed, but that should go down in the next few days.  We’ll put some ice on it, but it should be fine to walk on in a week or so. You probably have a sprained ligament in the left that’s gonna take a bit longer to heal though.  It could be anywhere from 8 weeks to 10 months before it’s back to normal, so once you’re allowed up, I don’t want to see you putting any weight on it.”   

    Fine by me.  I’m done lifting rocks and crap.  Martinez can carry me around like a king if I have to go somewhere.

    “We’ll find you some crutches, but I don’t want you getting out of bed unassisted until you have at least one useable leg, so if you need to use the bathroom or something, just let me know.”

    He tapped at his clipboard, then looked back up.

    “There’s not much we can do for your back here, unfortunately,” he continued, “if you were…shoveling dirt?  It’s more likely to be a pulled muscle than a fracture or herniated disc, but there’s no way to tell for sure without an x-ray or CT scan.  And while we do have an x-ray machine, you’re gonna have to wait until we get back to the Hermes to use it. For now we can give you painkillers and hot compresses for it, but that’s about it.”

    Painkillers sound amazing.  I ran out of Vicodin ages ago, and I never got to use the morphine.  I bet they have a shiny new supply that doesn’t have Hab dirt on it. And I really made it, didn’t I?  I didn’t quit. I’m here. Nothing left to prove. I deserve to not be in agony.

    “The headache is likely from dehydration, I’ll hook up an IV with some fluids and you should be good to go.  I’m guessing from the supplies we found you with that you’ve been eating potatoes,” I mock-shudder at the word, “but we’re gonna start you off on protein shakes before building you back up to solid food.  You need the calories and nutrients faster than you’d be able to digest. Your stomach will still hurt after meals, but that should stop happening within a week or so.”

    Liam set down his clipboard and peered at me.

    “Obviously you’re pretty seriously underweight and malnourished.  Your bones are quite brittle right now, too, I’m afraid you’ll probably break something on the way up to the Hermes.  30 sols of proper food won’t be enough to prevent that, and you’re pretty weak right now, so it’ll take longer to heal too.”

    “Fun.”

    “Besides that…your blood pressure seems to be fluctuating quite a bit, so we’ll have to keep an eye on that.  Your heartbeat is a little weak too, but I’m hopeful that that’s from stress and exhaustion, and will settle soon.”

    He fell silent, for a moment, just looking at me, taking me in.  Probably thinking I look (and smell) like shit. Wondering how I did it.  Wondering how much of me survived. I studiously avoid catching his eye.

    Asshole better not be pitying me.

    He exhales softly and picks his clipboard back up.

    “You probably have a variety of mental health issues as a result of your…isolation,” he continues, glancing down at it briefly, “but I think we can discuss that at another time.  For now I’d like to get some food into you and let you get some sleep. You’re in pretty bad shape and you need all the rest you can get to heal.”

    I stop fiddling with the blanket to look at him suspiciously.

    “You’re not going to ask me how I did it?” I ask.  “NASA must be flipping their shit. They must have told you to get the details.”

    He smiles.  “My first priority is to get you better.  NASA can wonder for a while. Anyway, it serves them right for leaving you here, they can sweat a little.”

    “Damn straight.”

    “Not to say I’m not curious,” he says, sitting at the edge of the bed to help me back into my shirt.  “To have survived for so long on your own…I mean Jesus. I’m amazed you can even talk, and focus enough for a conversation.”

    “I haven’t spoken to anyone in so long.  Haven’t heard a real voice in so long. This conversation is all I can focus on, I’d still be paying attention to it if I were in a coma.”

    Shit.  I didn’t mean to actually say that.

    Oh well, can’t take it back now.  And anyway, it’s true.

    He sits back a bit, one hand on my shoulder, and looks me in the eye.  I can’t tell if that’s admiration or pride or what in his expression, but it, combined with the physical contact of another real live human being is making me tear up again.  I break eye contact to look at something else so I don’t start crying. Again. I stare at the potatoes, my hatred of them should get these sappy emotions under control.

    “It’s alright to cry, Mark.”

    He hasn’t moved, his hand still on my shoulder.  I can tell without seeing that he’s got that understanding look in his eye.  The one psychologists use to try and get you to spill your deepest feelings or some shit.  Nope. Not happening. Stare at the potatoes, Watney. Fuck those potatoes.

    “There’s no shame in it.  It’s just a way to release pent up stress and emotions.  You’ve had a tough time, and you suffered it alone.”

    Fucking.  Potatoes. I am not.  Crying. In front of this stranger.

    The potatoes just sit there, a testament to what I had to do to get to where I am now.  Somewhere on Earth, there’s a bag of potatoes just like this on someone’s kitchen floor.  It doesn’t mean anything there. It’s just food that was bought from the grocery store. Something to go with dinner.  But potatoes on Mars aren’t just dinner. They’re digging. They’re blowing up the only shelter to make water. They’re smelling like shit forever.  They’re a symbol on a flag, a proud icon of isolation. They’re here, right now, because I didn’t kill myself even when I really really wanted to. They’re not just potatoes.  They’re all the pain of the last four years crammed into a homemade carry bag.

    I am not crying.

    It’s just Mars dust in my eyes.

    “It’s going to take time to feel better.  But you’re safe now, we’ve got you, and we’re going to take care of you.  You’re going home, Mark.”

    Nope nope nope.

    I bury my face in my hands and count to twenty, waiting for the moment to pass.  The hum of the oxygenator is oddly comforting, the bed almost infinitely more comfortable than the rover seat.  I sit there, breathing (alive) and take in the fact that I did it. I’m here. I can take a break, finally. Liam has finally shut up so I eventually manage to get myself under control.

    I swipe my eyes with my shirtsleeve and look up at him.  He’s just looking back, not saying anything, probably waiting for me to spill my guts out.  Not happening. I can drag out this silence better than you can, buddy. I’ve got four years of practice on you.

    He sits there staring a while longer before speaking.

    “What are you thinking right now?”

    Unbelievable.

    “That I have about a million Marvel movies to catch up on,” I gripe.  “and also that you promised me food. And if you try to feed me liquefied potatoes or something I may have to murder you.”

    He finally breaks his psychologist persona and gets up with a rueful smile.

    “Damn.  I knew I should have packed a blender.  Oh well, hindsight and all that. What flavour protein drink do you want?”

    I stare at him, speechless.  Holyyy. Flavours. I forgot things came in flavours.

    “All of them.  All the flavours.”

    He pulls some sort of liquid thing from the fridge.

    “That’s gonna be gross.  I mean it’s mostly fruity ones, but that many packets in one drink is gonna be way too concentrated.”

    Ohhh fruit flavours.  I remember fruit.

    “Is there a strawberry one,” I ask, trying to sit up more to see what he’s doing.

    A small amount of agony stabs through my back as I straighten it and I flop back on the pillows with a hiss.  Liam glances at me in concern, but I wave him off.

    “There is a strawberry one,” he replies, ripping open a packet and mixing it in.  “I’m not sure how much it actually tastes like strawberry though. Probably not enough to mask the taste of ‘weird health drink’, but your body needs it, so you’re stuck with it anyway.”

    I shrug and yawn as he brings it over.

    “S’long as it doesn’t taste like potatoes.”

    “It shouldn’t.  Don’t fall asleep yet, you still need to drink it.”

    Liam helps me settle back into a sitting position before passing me the non-potato drink.  He watches me sip at it for a minute before sitting down in a chair next to me with his laptop.   

    Holy shit.  This strawberry drink thing is the best thing I have ever had.  I try not to glow or levitate as my soul ascends from the hellscape it’s been trapped in and realigns with the mortal realm.

    I watch Liam out of the corner of my eye and wait for him to focus on his laptop before letting any of the giddiness I’m feeling show on my face.  I thought I would never taste anything ever again. But here I am. In strawberry heaven. I could grow strawberries. God, imagine what a real one would taste like.  I feel like I’m drinking a potion from a video game, in my minds eye the hearts on my health meter are blinking back to life, and the annoying ‘hey, you’re dying’ sound effect finally, _finally_ shuts off.

    I squint at the writing on the drink bag, my eyes taking a worryingly long time to focus.  High energy protein shake. Do not drink more than two a day. It's got electrolytes. It's what plants crave.  

    …

    I am so tired.

    I sip my drink and watch Liam type for a while.  The click-clacking of keys are one of the few people noises my mind didn’t make up for me, so just listening to it now is unbelievably comforting.  I sit there, drinking liquid happiness, listening to signs of life in the universe. I guess Earth is still around after all. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so at peace in my entire existence.

    Earth.  With its beautiful atmosphere.  With its water, just…lying around.  Mom and Dad are on there right now, waiting for me.  So are Beck, Lewis, Johanssen and Vogel. I wonder what they’re thinking right now.  Probably nothing good.

    Guilt sinks into me and I hate it.  I shouldn’t feel bad for making them feel bad by my still being alive.  I’m sure they were just starting to get over me, too. They’re probably all older, like Martinez.  Time didn’t stop for them like it did for me. They didn’t stagnate in their lives like I had to, they’ve moved on, I’m sure.  I shouldn’t feel the need to apologize to them for interrupting their path, or whatever. But I do. It would have been easier for them if I’d just died.

    Even Martinez is visibly suffering because of me, and he’s supposed to be the comic relief.

    How did he even make it on this mission, anyway?  There’s no way NASA would have allowed that. Not so soon anyway.  The Ares 4 pilot should’ve been in training while Ares 3 was on the way back, so what happened?

    I finish the drink and fiddle with the corners of the package.  Makes sense that Martinez would want to go back into space, especially since he didn’t get to do that much the last time.  He’s a good pilot too, he landed the MDV pretty damn perfectly, so it’s not like they can’t use him. But sending him on a mission to a planet that killed his best friend four years ago seems like the kind of thing that wouldn’t get past psych.  I can’t figure it out.

    I gaze around the Hab listlessly.  Fuck I’m tired. My brain hurts.

    Liam shifts beside me, reading over what he wrote.  Oh. That’s right, I don’t have to figure it out. I have people I can ask things.  Wow.

    “Hey, Graeves,” I grin despite myself, a warm fuzzy feeling filling me.  Real people, with real answers.

    “Hey, Watney.”

    “How is Martinez here?  I know NASA didn’t send him for my benefit, since you all thought I was dead, so what gives?  Didn’t you have your own pilot?”

    He saves his file and closes his laptop.  “We did,” he says, frowning at the wall. “Yui Saito, she’s a good pilot, and a great scientist.  She was really looking forward to this mission too.”

    “Sooo?”

    He sighs.  “She caught a bad case of pneumonia a week before we were supposed to leave, and had to be hospitalized.  We had to either delay the mission by a year or so or go with Martinez. We’re all trained for basic piloting of course, but NASA didn’t want to risk going without a specialist.”

    I feel myself go cold and my heart climbs steadily into my throat.  A year. They would have missed me by a year. I inhale shakily and hide my trembling hands under the blanket before Liam can notice them.

    “But after what happened with Ares 3, NASA really didn’t want to put this mission on hold.  They felt they needed to prove that they could effectively deal with unexpected situations and that future missions wouldn’t be jeopardized the same way.  The psych department kicked up a fit, but in the end they went with the Martinez option.”

    I snort, the cold terror dying down to a manageable level.  “NASA deals with unexpected situations about as well as a betta fish deals with a mirror.”

    “Yes, well,” he smiles apologetically, “it did work out, at least.”

    A year.  Jesus. “Yeah.”

    I sink further into the pillows.  The adrenaline of being found is starting to wear off and it’s getting harder and harder to keep my eyes open.

    “Where’s the rest of your crew?” I mumble-ask.  “Did you leave them behind too? ‘Cause I should warn you, Martinez is next to useless, so that’s a lot of science you’re gonna have to do by yourself.”

    He laughs outright, the sound filling the room.  Damn that’s nice to hear when it’s not Mars making it.  That was me, I did that, I made that happen. Doctor Graveyard is laughing right now as a direct result of me not dying.  That’s pretty damn awesome.

    “They’re outside, doing science stuff.  Some of us still have day jobs.” He grins.

    “Hey, I never got a pink slip,” I retort, “So I should still be on the payroll.  And I’d better get overtime and hazard pay, otherwise I’m telling the union that NASA discriminates against ghosts.”

    “You’re not a ghost, Mark.  You’re alive, you did it.”

    “…yeah.”  I fiddle with the drink package, not meeting his eye.  I feel more ghost than human right now. But the normal people who haven’t been steadily losing their marbles for years don’t need to know that.

    “We didn’t want to overwhelm you,” he eventually says.  “We thought it’d be less disorienting for you to wake up with only a few people around.  They’re a great crew, I know you’ll get along. You’ll be able to meet them tomorrow morning.  Or…afternoon more likely, whenever you wake up. And then maybe you’ll be able to shed some light on how you managed to survive.  And get here, I mean jeez, Acidalia Planitia is not close by.”

    Liam stretches and stands, taking the empty drink package from me to toss it.

    “It’s killing you not knowing, isn’t it?” I smile, exhaustion pulling my eyes shut.

    I hear his footsteps move away and then come back.

    “It is, it really is.  I don’t think NASA’s stopped hyperventilating since they saw your Watneymobile next to the MAV.  The world is clawing at them for answers, and they don’t have any to give, because the only guy who can explain it is about to pass out.”

    I snuggle into the covers, warm and comfortable and full for the first time in an eternity.

    “Good.”

    The chair moves beside me and I hear the click of a laptop opening.

    “Go to sleep, Doctor Watney.”

    That's King Watney to you, if you're gonna use a title.  I try to mumble out an ‘ok’, but the message gets lost on the journey from brain to vocal chords.  My head feels fuzzy and light. I tilt it back against the pillow and spin backwards into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it Watney! Woo! I wanted to have at least one familiar face, hence the Martinez cheat.
> 
> Also, coming soon to a fanfic near you: a heck ton of OCs.


	13. Questions and Answers

Sol 1419 

    It’s a weird feeling, waking up in a room full of people after spending over four years alone.  You hear the voices first- hushed tones and muted conversations that filter into your brain before the rest of you is really awake.  You must have left the laptop on again. Then your sense of touch comes back to you. The soft bed, the warm blanket, the fluffy clean pillow, so different, so much better than the hard cramped rover you’ve become used to.  Tactile hallucinations. Slowly, like an antique machine, your brain starts whirring and clunking into gear. It starts putting the pieces together while you’re still trying to wake up. Hey- I think that means people? It tells you.  Can’t be. Then the smell of coffee hits you. You’re out of coffee though, so you must be dreaming, still. You are in the Hab, your brain says. You are in the Hab and you are not alone. But it’s not until you shift a little and open your eyes that you truly believe it.

    I’m really here.  I really made it.

    The walls are still boring white canvas.  The equipment is exactly the same. But the air is completely different.  And I don’t just mean it smells better. I can feel the excitement in the room.  These are scientists, optimistically poking at the universe with a stick to see what it does.  A fresh new mission to our neighbouring planet because we were curious about it. It isn’t the thick atmosphere of one man clawing at the dirt to survive.  The change makes me feel physically lighter. …luckily it doesn’t actually make me lighter though. Because I would die.

    Only now I’m a vampire.  I’m not even properly awake yet and I can already feel the bright cheery Hab draining the energy out of my jaded depressed body.  It’s going to be hell trying act happy. ...and I’m _tired_ .  I sigh and roll onto my right side, bury my face in the pillow and refuse to face the world.  The arm that isn’t supporting my head is aching for something warm and furry to hold. I have never wanted a cat so badly in my life.  There is a place right there in front of my chest and under my arm where a cat would fit just _perfectly,_ and it feels like a crime against humanity that there isn’t one.

    My fuzzy brain is not ready to get up yet.  By rights I should be unconscious right now.  I lie there for a while and try to fall back asleep.  My arms are cold. The absence of a cat on my bed is distracting.  I feel like I’ve slept forever, but I’m still exhausted. It’s gonna be a long trip home if I can’t sleep without an animal.  I groan in sleepy frustration and pull the pillow out from under my head and hug it where the cat should be. Now my neck is at a weird angle.  This is uncomfortable. I roll onto my other side, but to my great shock and astonishment I am just as uncomfortable on my left side as I was on my right.  ...and now my back hurts from moving.

    “Do you need another pillow, Watney?” Martinez’ teasing voice filters in and I chuck the pillow in its direction before my brain fully registers what I’m doing.  I reopen my eyes to confirm that I hit my target. Nice.

    “Now I need two pillows,” I grouch.  “…and a cat. You didn’t bring one with you, did you?”

    “I did not bring a cat,” he confirms.

    “Can you like...find one?” I shiver.  Cats are warm.

    He shuffles into the seat nearest me.  “Watney, buddy, you know I would get you anything right now, but I’m sorry to report that there are no cats on Mars.”

    “Why not?” I whine, rolling onto my back so I can attempt to sit up.

    “Because Curiosity killed them all,” he answers reflexively.

    I stare at him.  He stares back, stunned at his own wittiness, before grinning at me.  “You know you missed me.”

    I huff as he tosses the pillow at my head.  It smacks me in the face. Damn slow reflexes. I place it against the headboard and swear under my breath as I force my stiff body into a sitting position against it.  Fuck, my back hurts.

    “But seriously, I think commander Peters has a stuffed polar bear if you want something fuzzy to hold.”

    “Commander Peters?”

    “Kim’s fine,” a voice calls from across the Hab.

    I turn to look for a face and find five of them instead of one.  All of them are trying and failing to look busy and uninterested in me.  A short red-headed man gives up and waves at me. I wave back.

    “I know...one of you.”

    Liam smiles at me from behind his microscope.

    A moment passes in which absolutely nobody even pretends to be working.

    “Alright, gather ‘round, kids,” I wave them over.  I want to bask in the company. “Let me take a look at you young whippersnappers.”

    The redhead drops his petri dish like a hot potato (hahaha kill me) and skips over to sit on the edge of the bed.  The rest of them follow more calmly, dragging chairs with them, and arrange themselves in a semi-circle around me. Liam stops in the kitchen area while they settle themselves, all of them looking at me with more awe and respect than I deserve.  I don’t care that they’re wrong about me. It’s just nice to see people again.

    “I’m Sim,” the short red-head pipes up, sticking his hand out, “Simish.  Sim McMillan. Nice to meet you.”

    Oh man, he’s Scottish.  Please be the engineer, pleeeease be the engineer.  My face hurts from smiling so much and I shake his hand, reveling in the fact that I have the energy to do so.

    “Nice to meet you, Sim.  What do you do?”

    He puffs himself up proudly.  “Well, lad, _I_ am an astronaut.”

    I crack up, not expecting a joke.  He looks pleased with himself as Martinez shakes his head at me.  “You didn’t laugh at my amazing Curiosity joke and you laugh at _that_.  Mars has changed you, man.”

    “Don’t be jealous, Martinez.”

    “Yeah, don’t be jealous, Rick,” Sim grins at him.

    “Haha, weird.  I forgot you had a first name,” I poke his arm.  “You guys are pretty informal.”

    He sticks his tongue out at me as Liam makes his way over with a protein drink.  “I didn’t want to be stuck with being called Dr. Graveyard for five years,” Liam says dryly, handing me the package and sitting down.

    “Spoilsport.”

    Sim shifts to sit cross-legged at the edge of the bed and smirks at Liam, then looks back at me.  “I am the engineer and EVA specialist.”

    Oh my god.

    “Can I call you Scotty?”  I plead.

    “Under no circumstances ever,” he laughs.  “Alright, I’ve had my go, someone else introduce themselves.”

    A woman with strawberry blond hair and green eyes waves from her position to my left.  She sits slouching a little with her arms on the backrest of the chair, looking more comfortable than I thought it was possible to be in those things.

    “Commander Kim Peters, physicist, chemist and unofficial morale officer.  I am also an astronaut. If you want to borrow Ollie just let me know.”

    “Ollie is...”

    She smiles at me.  “My kid nephew’s flame-retardant polar bear.  He wanted to go to space. Gonna have a talk with Ursa Major about where to get the best space fish.  He’s not a cat, but...” she shrugs. “Whatever.” She looks to the man next to her. “Next.”

    He raises his bushy eyebrows and runs a hand through messy brown hair.

    “Okay, ben...Salut, I’m Félix Ayotte.  I am also an astronaut. I specialize in geology and botany.”  He leans forward for a handshake.

    “Are you Canadian?” I ask.  “That doesn’t sound like a European French accent.”

    He nods.  “I am from middle of nowhere Quebec.  We have a lot of rocks and water and dirt, so that’s why I studied the rock and dirt science.”

    I agree solemnly.  “Rocks and dirt are the best science.”

    “Ouais.  The best.”  He gestures with his hand, “sometimes you find rocks in the dirt.  One time we found dirt in the rocks. Nothing exciting like that happens in chemistry.”

    Kim reaches out an arm and spins his chair in protest.  “That’s enough outta you. Nicole, you’re up.”

    The last mystery person to my right wheels her seat closer, pink poofy hair contained by a scrunchie.  Her dark skin crinkles around the eyes as she holds out her hand and gives me the most sincere smile I’ve ever seen.

    “Nicole Epps, nice to meet you, Doctor Watney.  I’m really glad you’re not dead. That was a bummer.”

    “Aw, thanks.  I’m really glad I’m not dead too,” I’m still grinning as I shake her hand.  That was probably a lie but no one needs to know. “Call me Mark, since you guys are all using your first names.”

    “Okay, Mark,” quips Martinez.

    “Not you.  You can call me King Watney.  So Nicole, does that make you the resident techie?”

    “Sure does,” she says, swinging her legs.  “A lot of it is telling people to try turning things off and back on again, but I could rewrite the Hermes if I wanted to and it would probably run better.  I’m the Systems Operator, Reactor tech and Navigator. Sim thinks he’s hot stuff because he’s in charge of tightening the bolts, but he still comes crying to me when his NES emulator crashes.”

    “I was _so_ close to beating Tiny Toons,” he says sadly.

    She waves her arms in an ‘I give up’ sort of motion.  “Anyway, you’ve met Liam, and Rick obviously, so that’s all of us.”

    At his name, Liam gestures towards me, propped up semi-comfortably against the pillow.   “Drink the protein shake, Mark.”

    I sip at it.  Cherry.

    “You can imagine we have questions for you, but do you have any for us first?”

    I drink the fruit thing, considering.  I am so hungry. Flavours are amazing and all, but-

    “When do I get real people food again?”

    He raises an eyebrow, and looks at me.  I still don’t know how I look, but judging from his facial expression, probably less than seaworthy.

    “When I’m convinced it won’t kill you.  You need to gain at least 10 lbs first, so give it a few weeks.”

    I huff and finish the drink, handing the empty package to Martinez to keep as a souvenir.  I look at him seriously and he blinks with what I think might be nervousness. He knows what I’m going to ask.

    “How’s the rest of Ares 3 doing?  With the whole ‘actually I’m not dead’ thing, I mean.”

    The oxygenator continues humming, but not loudly enough to cover the awkward silence that has suddenly filled the room.  Martinez looks down, opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it and looks back at me. Sim pats my foot.

    “They don’t know, do they.”

    Martinez cringes and shakes his head.  “I wanted to tell them immediately, but NASA wanted to make sure you were going to make it first.  And then you woke up, and you looked like you’d pull through, but they wanted to know what happened first, so they could have all the facts.  Everyone fought to try and figure out what happened to you, Lewis especially, so they’re going to have some really loud questions for NASA. Sanders thought it’d probably be best if they had answers to give them.”

    I purse my lips.  I can see the logic, but it still makes me angry.  “How are they keeping them away from the news? The satellite data must have been released by now.  Do my parents know?”

    “Your parents know,” Liam answers quickly.  The creeping panic I hadn’t noticed rising recedes.  “NASA brought them to Houston as soon as I confirmed that you were alive.  They’re waiting on updates now. Ares 3 was brought in for debriefing before the pictures were released, so they know something’s going on with Ares 4, but not what yet.”

    So I’m still dead to them.  My chest hurts. I’m freezing, so I pull the blanket up to my shoulders.  NASA isn’t going to tell them until they know what happened. My parents know I’m alive but they don’t know how.  They really...weren’t watching me. At all. I was alone that whole time. I knew, I think. I tried telling myself that someone up there cared.  Someone was rooting for me. Someone back on Earth was telling me not to give up. But I knew.

    Kim gets up and shuffles towards her bunk.

    Martinez gets out of his chair and flops on the bed next to me.

    Nobody else moves.  They sit quietly, and wait for me to say something.  My heart is hammering in my chest so hard I’m sure they can hear it.  All this time I was afraid of dying alone without anyone knowing what happened to me.  But now I don’t want to tell them. I want them to know, but I don’t want to say it. Just...pull the information directly out of my head and bypass the mouth entirely.  The silence is stifling.

    “You had...some questions for me?” I eventually manage to say.

    Kim returns with a polar bear plushie and hands it to me before sitting back down.  I play with its paws while they silently decide who’s going to ask how I’m not dead.

    Martinez drew the short straw.  It’s only fair I guess, it was his mission too.

    “On sol 6...” he starts, a flash of terror strikes through me, the antenna pierces my side, the winds drown out the rest of his sentence.  I clench my hands until they hurt and hug the bear, trying not to let my panic show. That was 1412 sols ago. A lifetime. Yesterday. I breathe shakily and the winds die down enough for me to hear again.  “...decompressed, we thought you were dead. We never would have left otherwise. What happened? How did you survive that?”

    I didn’t.  I died. And then my body kept going without me.

    Mars laughs quietly in the background.

    “The um...” I take a deep breath and force my arms to stop shaking.  I don’t meet anyone’s eyes, and stare at the polar bear instead. “The antenna from the communications dish punctured my suit and broke my bio-monitor, and dragged me back over a hill.  I passed out, but I landed face-down, so my blood formed a weak seal around the hole. The CO2 filters were saturated and I was out of nitrogen by the time I regained consciousness, so my suit had backfilled it with oxygen.  I managed to get back to the Hab in time, and stitched myself up.”

    That’s how it happened.  I didn’t have a breakdown when I saw the landing struts.  I didn’t almost pass out and die for good. I didn’t cry. I just woke up and got to business.  My eyes flickered up to look at Martinez’ face, then back down, unwilling to deal with the amount of guilt I saw.

    “It wasn’t your fault,” I mutter.  “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It’s just a thing that happened.”

    To me.  While you guys left.  I mentally shake myself, disappointed in my own train of thought.  I’m not mad, really. It just hurts.

    He presses himself closer to me and doesn’t say anything.

    “What did you do next?” Nicole asks, wheeling her chair forward until her knees touched the bed.  “I guess you couldn’t contact the Hermes without the communications dish?”

    Contemplated suicide.

    I turn the polar bear (...Ollie?) to face her and wave its paw at her as I answer.

    “No, I couldn’t contact the Hermes.  I knew my only chance to get back to Earth was to get to the Ares 4 site, but I didn’t have enough food to make it until then, so I had to come up with something.  I took stock of what was in the Hab, and found the potatoes we were supposed to use on thanksgiving.”

    Martinez makes a strangled sort of noise next to me, and I look at him reflexively.  He has a far-off look on his face, like he’s picturing an entirely different reality where nothing went wrong and we got to eat them, laughing, as a family.

    “We were supposed to prepare those as a crew,” he explains to them, “we were going to make this big meal together, it was supposed to be good for morale.  I’d forgotten. I thought it was stupid at the time, making us waste time cooking when we could’ve been working.”

    Privately, I thought it was stupid too.  We put up with a lot of annoying tests to become astronauts, but psychologists trying to get into my brain always bothered me the most.  I mocked them a bit when I found out they were sending raw potatoes just to have us prepare them. But then they saved my life, so I guess I owe them beer and an apology.

    “What month is it, anyway?” I ask, looking vaguely in Kim’s direction.

    She thinks for a minute.  “...November? November.”

    “Did psych give you guys thanksgiving potatoes too?”

    “Nope.”

    “Cool.”  I stare at them each in turn.  “So you’d better not leave me behind, then.”

    Sim shakes his head vigorously.  “You are coming back with us, Mark.”

    “You guys got an extra seat?”

    His face falls a bit, but then brightens.  “I am engineer. I will make one. You are coming back with us.”

    I snort, accepting it.

    “So, you found potatoes,” Nicole presses, “how did you turn them into more potatoes?  They can’t have sent that many.”

    I grin at her and turn to look at their botanist.

    “I planted them in the Hab, and they grew.”

    Félix’s eyes bug out and he grips the arms of his chair leaning forward and looking like he wants to leap at me for answers.  “Quoi?! How. WHAT. HOW?!”

    “Botany,” I say, shaking Ollie’s paw at him.  “I used the rocks and dirt science. You take a heck ton of Mars dirt, add in a little Earth dirt, human waste, some light, a ton of water and time, and poof!  Martian potatoes. They grow pretty well in a temperature controlled, pest-free environment.”

    Martinez shakes his head.  “But they weren’t in a pest-free environment.”

    They weren’t in...what?  I squint at him, confused.  “The heck are you talking about?  Did you sneak some caterpillars into your carry-on?”

    “Nah, I just mean you were there.”

    I roll my eyes, secretly glad he can still joke with me.

    Kim’s face scrunches up next to a still speechless Félix and she waves an arm at me.  “But you didn’t have a ton of water, right? And the Hab doesn’t have a lot of farmland.”

    The Hab is a bomb.  The smell of ammonia never went away.  I need a radiation shield. Fucking Disco, Lewis.  I’m digging myself deeper. My arms hurt from shoveling.  I want to die.

    I force a smile over my face but it doesn’t fit right and comes out as more of a grimace.  “I used the hydrazine from the MDV. It turns out if you set stuff on fire you get water out of it.  Makes you wonder why they don’t do that more often.”

    Oops, they’re all horrified looking.  What. Did I say something weird?

    “It’s okay,” I say hastily.  “It wasn’t that bad, I only blew myself up once.”

    Martinez wraps an arm around me and squeezes.  I swallow and try not to look too desperately happy at the contact.  “Holy shit, dude.”

    “Sorry mom, I won’t do it again.”

    He laughs, shoving me slightly before putting his arm back on my shoulder.  “How did you even start a fire in the first place?”

    I eye him guiltily.  “You know that cross you brought?”

    “Jesus Christ,” he sighs.

    “That’s the one.”  I study him to see if he’s actually angry, but he’s still worried looking over me blowing myself up.  “...anyway, so I had water. I also filled the emergency pop-tents with dirt, and covered every available surface except one bunk and a lab table.  Really, most of my Mars time was spent waiting for stuff to grow.”

    ...and waiting for NASA to turn on Pathfinder, I don’t say.  I’m still pretty salty about that.

    “Did you guys really not know I was alive?”

    Kim shifted nervously.  “Teddy Sanders wouldn’t let them take satellite photos of Acidalia Planitia for over a year after...they lost contact with you.  He was worried about the future of the Ares missions and didn’t want to risk the bad PR.”

    “Asshole.”

    She shrugs, then nods.

    “I can see why you’d think that.  But there really was talk about losing our funding.  It’s lucky we sent our MAV with you guys, having a million dollar spacecraft here already for us was a pretty compelling argument.”

    I shiver.  I thought the mission _had_ been canceled.  I spent a whole sol knowing it.  I didn’t have the strength left in me to be angry at the time, but I do now.  And even though they’re here, a pit in the center of my chest is smoldering at the thought that they nearly weren’t.

    “Well...” I say, mentally repeating my favourite mantra, ‘don’t think about it’, “Ares 4 found life on Mars.  So that’s pretty impressive, probably justifies like...three more Ares missions all on its own. And sure, NASA may have lost an astronaut for a while.  But...y’know. You got him back, right?”

    They’re all smiling at me now.  I can feel Martinez physically restraining himself from poking fun at my sappiness.

    “I think the Ares program will be okay,” I continue.  “There’s still plenty of Mars left to explore. Plus I’ve been here for...a while.  And I’ve been doing a _lot_ of research and experiments on the soil here.”

    Liam eyes the messy pile of samples and potatoes near the airlock and looks back at me.  I nod solemnly.

    “And what I’ve found...” I look him dead in the eye, “is _groundbreaking_.”

    He blinks, waiting for me to elaborate.  Time freezes for half a second. Sim bursts out laughing and leans back, forgetting he was on the edge of the bed, and falls off.  Liam stares at him, bewildered, before realizing the pun. His eyes snap back to me with a look of horrified betrayal as he shakes his head slowly.  “I really don’t know what I was expecting.”

    I grin, thankful for past me’s prepared jokes.   _I’m getting away with it_ , I realize.   _They think I’m fine._

    My back protests sitting upright for so long so I slide down a bit against the pillow.  I’m exhausted. I expected to be physically weak when I got rescued, but I never imagined I’d get this drained from having a conversation.  I don’t have the willpower to talk anymore. This sort of thing is supposed to come naturally, people never used to be this tiring. They’re all leaning forward like they want more details, but I’m done socializing.  I just want to be quiet for the rest of the day.

    “So that’s what happened.  Impaled by an antenna, didn’t die, made water, farmed some potatoes, and voided the warranties on both rovers to get here.  You tell those bums at NASA to tell the crew I’m not dead.”

    I fake a yawn, trying to make it look natural.  Suddenly I can’t stand the company. I just want to be alone, so I can think whatever I want and not have to keep it off my face.  Nobody wants to know that they’ve rescued a basket case. I’m a mess and I need them to go away. I can’t keep smiling like this.

    “Okay,” Liam says, standing.  “I’m sure you’re still pretty tired, and you likely will be for a while.  That’s an unfortunate side effect of stress and starvation. Any other questions we have will wait.  I’ll go update NASA, everyone else can get back to their work.”

    “Yes, commander,” Kim says, amused.

    He blushes.  “Sorry.”

    She waves him off as they stand and drag their chairs back to their workstations.  Martinez is the last to get up, patting me on the shoulder and swinging himself off the bed.  “It’s good to have you back,” he says seriously. For a moment he looks like he’s going to add a joke, but then he shrugs and pulls the blankets up.  “Yeah, I got nothing. Get some sleep, buddy.”

    I watch him walk off to talk to Liam, watch him cross over the invisible threshold between reality and hallucinations.  He flickers, then ceases to really exist. And I am alone. My chest clenches painfully. My eyes dart around frantically as my heart races.  Whose Hab is this? Where did the dirt go. A stabbing pain runs through my back as my muscles tense but I can’t get myself to relax them. Green ribbons string themselves up in my minds eye, decorating the walls, holding up blanket forts, flags on a castle.  One of them snakes out of an airlock 3200 km away, races across the craters and valleys, pierces through the canvas walls, wraps itself around my chest, and _pulls_.  I inhale sharply and try not to scream.

    Félix glances over and I smile weakly at him and sink further into the covers.  I force my eyes shut. Was he real? He looked real.

    I surreptitiously move a hand up to my chest and feel for ribbons.  There aren’t any. Because this is real, Watney. Martinez is real and Félix is real and you’re real.  I lie there with my eyes shut, waiting for my stupid heart to calm down. The coffee cups clink in the corner, but I’m too chicken to look.  They’re real. You’re real. You’re safe.

    I focus on the feel of the mattress, the weight of the blankets, the hum of the oxygenator.  Eventually my pulse slows leaving a weak shaky mess behind it.

    ...This is garbage.

    My body phases out of existence, my world becoming one of Hab noises and nothing else.  Mumbled conversations. Typing of keys on keyboards. Coffee. Echoes in the void. The sounds all blur together into a sort of white noise, my mind too wiped to focus on any of them.  My head hurts and I’m dizzy, but I don’t really care. I have nothing to fall off of. The muted world falls away and I’m out.

 

* * *

Sol 2 

Rick Martinez

    “Get some sleep buddy,” Martinez says, taking a long look at his best friend in the world.  His best friend in two worlds. The one he lost four years ago and never really recovered from.  For the longest time, he didn’t accept that Watney was really gone. They didn’t leave him behind.  He wasn’t dead on Mars, he was just...misplaced. Like a lost set of keys or a wallet that you haven’t seen in longer than you’d like but you know you have it around here _somewhere_.  And then more and more time passes and you start to panic- where did I last see it, what was I doing, where did I go, _oh god where is it_ _I know I just saw it but where._  It wasn’t until they were landing on Earth that it truly set in.  Watney should be landing with us. Why isn’t he here? We left him, we left him, we have to go back.  We can’t.

    When Kapoor asked him to go back to Mars, he hadn’t even hesitated.  Wouldn’t even let him finish asking (are you sure it’s not too soon).  He got along well with the crew, they were a good bunch, but while they were giddy from the novelty of space, he was impatient to get there and spent the whole trip willing the Hermes to go faster.  Something important was there, and it wasn’t the dirt.

    When NASA sent them the satellite photos of their MAV, with the old rovers (he only got to drive them once) and the solar panels all around it, he broke down.  Profound relief and joy warred against guilt and horror and sadness and he was a mess. He’d told Watney they were kept in orbit longer to make sure he wouldn’t do anything to the MAV.  The truth was Martinez hadn’t been in any fit state to fly. Outwardly he’d been calm, creepily calmer looking than he’d ever been in his life, but underneath his heart was beating so fast Liam nearly gave him a sedative. He’d managed to control himself before someone else was drafted to fly, but NASA wasn’t happy about it.  When they finally landed (one and a half meters closer to the MAV than regulations allow) and pulled Watney out of the rover he was so sure they were too late. Some sort of proximity alarm went off on the way and he didn’t stir, and Martinez thought _it wasn’t fair_.

    But he made it.  Against even the most optimistic odds, he lived, he’s here, breathing.  A paper thin skeleton of who he was. His face was sunken in, his hair matted, his eyes either too focused or staring at nothing.  Liam had given him a sponge bath the second the Hab was set up. Being clean revealed starvation bruises and cuts that were hidden by the dirt.  His body was so emaciated it was a miracle he was able to move at all. Despite the bath, the smell still lingered. It killed Martinez to know what he’d been through, and it still wasn’t over.  It’ll be years before he’s physically recovered, decades, If ever, before he’s really okay.

    Martinez knew this wasn’t the Mark Watney that they had left behind.  He was weak, and hurt, and might not laugh the same way ever again. But he didn’t care.  He would be there for him. This was is best friend, and he owed him that.

    He saw Liam heading to his laptop and jogged to intercept him.  There were some other people he owed, too.

    “Liam.”

    “Hey Rick, what’s up?” the doctor asked, already opening H.E.L.P. (Hab Emergency Link Program) on his computer.

    “I need to be the one to tell Ares 3 that Watney’s alive.” he said, fighting against the urge to just grab the laptop away.

    Liam looked at him, his face expressionless.

    “I just,” he faltered, “it has to be me.”  They were a family, and they all shared this collective hurt that they carried with them.  He didn’t want some random person who couldn’t possibly understand tell them that they had left their brother behind, and he had broken.  Didn’t want some stranger to tell them like it was just a bit of interesting news. He had to do it, so he could be there for them, comfort them, and so they could rally behind Watney from the very first minute.  Martinez straightened, and looked Liam in the eye. “It has to be me.”

    “Okay,” he shrugged.  “I mean, it’s okay with me, but Kapoor and Sanders are going to want to know what happened.”

    “Then they can gather the crew and read over their shoulders.  I’m not going to keep this from them a minute longer than I have to.  They need to know now, and they need to hear it from me,” he insisted, holding a hand out expectantly.

    Liam paused, then nodded and passed the laptop over.  “Let me know when you’re done, I’ll send them the medical evaluation after.”

    “Thanks,” he replied, letting out a breath.  He sat down on the floor, not bothering to go get a chair.  He stole another glance at his friend, now asleep, straightened his shoulders, and started typing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you're not supposed to pick favourites, but Ollie's my favourite. So silent and stoic. Always there for you. Never judging. 10/10, top quality bear beats out the humans easily.
> 
> Also Watney's gonna spend a lot of the first few sols sleeping. Partly because he's super weak and needs rest to recover, but mostly because dialogue is hard. D:


	14. Questions Unanswered

Johnson Space Center 

    Chris Beck paced the small room they’d been given in frustration.  Every ten steps or so he stopped to glare at the door and glance at his fellow teammates.  Vogel was sitting in an armchair near the door, looking unconcerned (his default expression) and reading a book.  Commander Lewis, ever the professional, was working on some paper or other, no doubt made more difficult by the lack of internet access.  Johanssen, his fiancée, sat slouched on a bunk, watching him pace in annoyance.

    They hadn’t been given much warning when they’d been abruptly pulled from their lives and tossed into what felt like a holding cell to wait for information.  And Beck had been patient at first, guessing that it had something to do with Ares 4 and worrying about Martinez. _We can’t lose another friend to that planet._

It had been years, but the remaining crew of Ares 3 still felt the loss.  When you spend that much time training with people, living in close quarters and dealing with high-stress simulations, you either end up hating each other or becoming family.  And if you hate each other you don’t go to space. Losing Watney had hurt.

    Beck walked to the other end of the room.

    And now they were being kept in a room together, cut off from the rest of the world.  Kapoor had told them (over the phone) that something had happened, and they were waiting for more information, and then they had been left in limbo for four days.  It was wearing on all of them. Beck had even heard Lewis swearing earlier that morning.

    He glared at the door.

    “Will you sit down,” Johanssen snapped, drawing Lewis and Vogel’s attention.

    Beck picked up a water bottle and fiddled with the cap.  “We still don’t know what this is about. It’s been four days and we still don’t know.”

    “I know that.  And I’m worried too.  But you’re driving me crazy.  Sit,” she ordered, pointing at the uncomfortable office chair.  He sat, scowling.

    “They must soon tell us their reason for bringing us here,” Vogel reassured him, closing his book.  “NASA works slow. But if it is important enough to gather us, it is important enough to wait for. Have patience.”

    He huffed, putting down the water bottle, suddenly tired.  “I just...hope Martinez is okay.”

    Lewis stared intently at the floor, thinking.  She looked up after a moment, taking in what was left of her team.  “Okay,” she decided. “If they haven’t told us anything by the end of the day we’re all going to sneak out and find somewhere with wi-fi.  They must be keeping us isolated because whatever they’re hiding is in the news and they don’t want us to know yet. I say we find out.”

    Beck looked at her, suddenly struck by admiration for their leader.  Lewis isn’t the kind to break the rules, or even bend them. But she was willing to do it to look after them.

    “Wow,” Johanssen said, quietly impressed.  “Are you sure? I mean yes, let’s do it, fight the system, but you’re okay with that?”

    “I want to know what’s going on too,” she declared.  “And we deserve to know more than anyone. We’ve been patient.  We’ve waited. But if Martinez is in trouble and NASA hid it from us then they can shove it.”

    Vogel grunted in agreement.

    Beck relaxed minutely.  They were in this together.

    His eyes snapped to the door as it opened, revealing an unusually serious looking Mitch Henderson.  Lewis closed her laptop and stood, already opening her mouth to argue.

    “Martinez wants to talk to you all,” he said, opening the door wider.  “And to the rest of us, really.”

    Johanssen shot to her feet, halfway out the door before Beck could blink.  “You coming or what,” she asked, whirling around to look at them. Beck was up a second later.

    Vogel stood.  “Let’s go,” he said, nodding to Henderson and heading to the door.

    They moved through the halls as a unit, Lewis in front, Vogel bringing up the rear.  The doors blurred past as they walked purposefully, eyes forward. Henderson jogged to keep up.

    “It’s this one,” he puffed eventually, pointing to a secure conference room on their right

    Lewis glanced back, not breaking stride, making sure everyone was there.  Without hesitating, she pulled open the door and breezed in. Beck followed, Johanssen and Vogel a step behind.

    Vincent Kapoor and a stressed looking Teddy Sanders stood by one of the terminals.  Doctor Shields stood on the other side of it, that was odd. She had been their psychiatrist during their mission, what was she doing…

    Beck froze as his eyes landed on Mr. and Mrs. Watney standing off to the side.  Mr. Watney’s eyes were red and puffy, he looked like hadn’t shaved in a few days.  Mrs. Watney gave them a watery smile and a wave. No one was sitting.

    Cold dread settled in his heart.  This had to do with Ares 3. What happened?  What did they find?

    _A signal from Watney’s suit_ , his mind supplies. _A dying message from him.  His body._

    Impossible.  Impossible. His eyes dart between Kapoor and Sanders, trying to figure out what they already knew.  Johanssen slipped her hand into his. He could feel her pulse racing.

    Mrs. Watney stepped up to Lewis.  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said, with a wobbly smile.  She looked at them, and Becks knees grew shaky. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but it wasn’t your fault.”

    He was breathing too quickly, too shallowly.  What was going on.

    “We’re getting a message in now,” Sanders announced, awkwardly trying not to eavesdrop.

    Mrs. Watney patted Lewis on the shoulder, and she and her husband went to stand next to the terminal. Lewis followed and sat down heavily, the only hint that she was affected by seeing them.

    Beck was rooted to the spot.  He might have collapsed, but Johanssen pulled him gently by the hand and seated him next to Lewis before sitting on his other side.  Vogel stood silently behind them. Together they watched the text come in.

    >Ares4:  This is Martinez reporting from Schiaparelli Crater

    >Ares4:  Lewis, Vogel, Beck, Johanssen...this won’t be easy for you to hear, but you need to know.

    Beck shakily tried to sit down, realized he was already seated, and squeezed Johanssen’s hand tighter.

    >Ares4:  I don’t know how to cushion this, so I won’t.  Mark Watney is alive. He didn’t die on Sol 6, he survived.  We recovered him from his modified rovers near our MAV two sols ago.  He’s in bad shape, but our doctor is optimistic about his recovery.

    The world froze, then shattered.  Lewis, their unflappable commander, their rock in a storm, sobbed into her hands.  The room swam in front of Beck, as he numbly tried to reconcile the text on the screen with the lie he’d been living for the last four years.  Alive. Alive. Alive.

    Johanssen drew her legs up to her chest, crying, and quietly repeating, “we left him there.”

    >Ares4:  Watney’s suit decompressed when he was hit by an antenna from the comm. dish, but he landed face down and his blood formed a seal, keeping the pressure in.  He managed to get back to the Hab, and survived for four years by growing the potatoes from the thanksgiving dinner.

    Vogel collapsed, ashen-faced, into a chair, a hand in front of his mouth.  He stared intently at the screen. “What must he have had to do, to live through that,” he muttered, looking pained.

    Beck had no response.

    >Ares4:  I know this is a shock.  I know we’re all feeling confused, and guilty, and angry.  But our friend was dead, and now he isn’t. Not many people are so lucky.  Watney is alive. But he’s in bad shape, and he needs us. I don’t think we can ever make this right.  But we sure as hell are going to try.

    Beck watched Lewis compose herself, forcibly stuffing her emotions behind a wall of determination.  “Give me the keyboard,” she ordered.

    “I’m still in charge, you know,” Sanders sighed, handing it over.

    “Whatever he needs, we’ll get him,” she continued, ignoring him.  “We lost him once. We are not losing him again. We are going to be there for him every step of the way.  Let’s bring him home.”

    Warm hope filled him as he watched her type.  They had screwed up. But the world had a chance to be right again.  And he would not let it get away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are spoiling me with your reviews. I'm glad you like it! :D
> 
> I wanted to show NASA's reaction to finding out Mark is alive, but I couldn't find a way to fit it in naturally. I'll see if I can sneak it in later, or add it as a bonus.


	15. Letters From Home

Sol 1420 

    I hadn’t meant to actually pass out.  When I wake up it’s with the groggy, disoriented headache of someone who slept past their stop on the bus and got kicked off at two am at the end of the line, having no idea where they are.  Sim and Nicole are in their bunks with their laptops, typing something and watching something respectively. Other people. Don’t talk to yourself, Watney. The Hab lights are dimmed. They probably did that to let me sleep, but it sets me on edge.  The lights need to be on full or the potatoes won’t grow fast enough and I’ll die. Why aren’t they on full, what’s wrong with the power? _Maybe it’s not the power.  Maybe they kept the lights low so they don’t have to see you._

    I sit up slowly, mentally reminding myself that I don’t need to make my own food anymore, and also shut up, brain.  Ollie rolls off my chest and I look at him, amused and touched that he’s still in my care. I reposition the pillow behind my back and stand him up on the mattress next to me.  It’s good to know that if all else fails, I have a polar bear to protect me. I want human company too, though. I glance over at Sim and Nicole. I don’t really know them. Do they want to be alone, would I be bugging them by trying to talk?

    I consider them intently, anxious and frustrated by my own uncertainty.  People never made me nervous before. I could walk into a room full of strangers and know them all as friends in fifteen minutes flat.  Now instead of striking up a conversation I’m stuck staring creepily at them, afraid of alienating (I’m the alien here) the first people I’ve seen in four years.

    The relative quiet of the Hab washes over me.  The silence is tangible. Nothing on this entire planet is moving but the dust.  ...fuck it, I don’t care. They haven’t noticed me waking up, so I have to try to get their attention in a completely normal sort of way.  Okay, deep breath, you got this.

    “Greetings, Earthlings,” I scratch out in robot voice.  No, not like that Watney. Abort, abort! Too late, they’re looking at you.  Shit, okay, just go with it. I smile in what I hope is a nonchalant way.

    “Greetings, citizen,” Sim grins, tossing his laptop aside.

    “Heya,” Nicole says, looking over her screen.

    Nailed it.

    “Have you come to rescue me from boring reports?” Sim asks hopefully.

    “Nah, NASA doesn’t want to talk to me, if I write the reports they won’t read ‘em,” I joke.  He smiles awkwardly. Too much bitterness, Watney. Tone it back. “You write your reports in the dark?”  I ask, pretending not to be bothered. “That can’t be good for your eyes.”

    “Well, you were sleeping, lad, looked like you needed it too.”

    “I’m up now, let there be light.”  Okay, try not to sound too desperate.

    “Right you are.”  Sim graciously ignores my tone and hops up to make it brighter.

    Jesus, since when have conversations been _work_?  I can almost see the text bubbles floating at around chest-height.  Pick the right option and you get the ending you want, pick the wrong one and you’ll probably die alone or something.

    I pull Ollie to my chest, wishing I could hug my legs, but my back hurts and my knees hurt and I can’t.  I sit stiffly, trying to keep my breathing regulated. Nicole smiles brightly at me and gets up, jogging over to the kitchen area.

    “There we go,” Sim says, turning a dial up.  He flops into a chair.

    I exhale as the room brightens and the anxiety dies down a bit.  I mean, let’s not go crazy, I’m still trapped on a planet with next to no atmosphere hurtling around a giant ball of fiery radioactive death at 86,871 kilometers an hour.  But y’know. At least there’s lights and stuff.

    “Thanks,” I whisper.  My throat hurts. Probably from all the almost dying.

“Aye.”  He spins lazily around in his chair.  “Ye sure I can’t tempt you with some reports?”

    I cringe.  God, I remember when I had to do those.  “No. And anyway, like I said, NASA doesn’t want to talk to me.”  If there’s one thing I learned from the Pathfinder incident...

    He perks up a bit, spinning to face me.  “Oh, you’re wrong though. They’re all falling over themselves, didnnae you know?  All curious like about how you survived, and the research you did. No doubt worried about what you’re gonna say to the press too.  Houston is completely at your mercy, and they know it.”

    I smile at a sudden mental image of the PR department running around in circles, waving their arms and screaming.  I can hear Annie Montrose trying to sound both threatening and pleading at the same time. I bet she’s already asked for a picture.

    “Well, they should be worried,” I sniff, “I mean, four years without so much as a postcard, they forgot my birthday _and_ our anniversary.  Frankly I’m worried about our future together.”  Good. Keep it light, Watney.

    Sim spins to face the wall and kicks himself backwards towards me.  Quick side note here: Earth chairs have nothing on Mars chairs. The lighter gravity means you can go really far with minimal effort.  Unless the floor is covered in dirt and potatoes. I watch Sim fly across the room too fast, crash into the bed, and fall off the chair with an ‘oof’.

    “Sorry,” he wheezes, dazed.  He rests his arms on the bed, giving his chair the evil eye.  He sticks his tongue out at it and looks back up at me. “They’re a bit late to be sure, but they do want to talk to ye now.”

    Like hell, they just want to make sure I don’t do anything to make the Mars program look bad.  They probably want to determine for themselves how damaged I am so they can decide whether to lock me up the second I get back or have me do a photoshoot first.

    “They know where I am if they want to send flowers,” I scowl.

    “It’s true,” Nicole says, appearing on my right (when did she get there?).  “Sanders and Kapoor have both written you emails. Nothing long or anything, because of the data rate, but you can expect more of them.  Liam said for you to drink this,” she adds, handing me a vitamin protein shake thing.

    My heart squeezes.  I didn’t really think NASA was ignoring me on purpose.  I knew they had reasons- Pathfinder was too broken, they lost all their funding, they flat out didn’t know I was alive.  I knew there had to be _some_ reason for it.  But…

    “Did they really?”  I try not to sound too pathetic and fail miserably.

    “Yeah!”  She goes to grab her laptop and sits cross-legged on the floor next to Sim, who has apparently sworn off chairs for the time being.  She clicks a few buttons, then tilts her head, considering. “You also got one from your parents. Probably want to read that first.”

    “YES,” I nearly shout, sitting up straighter and immediately regretting it.  Ow, Jesus. I lean back slowly against the pillow, trying to keep the pain off my face.  Sim doesn’t look like he’s buying it. He reaches out an arm and pats my leg awkwardly.

    “Y’alright there?” Nicole asks sympathetically.

    “I am never shoveling again,” I groan.  “When winter comes I’m just gonna get a flamethrower and melt my driveway clear.  Local by-laws be damned.” I look pointedly at her laptop. “Anyway, forget that, you have emails for me.”

    She looks at me sideways.  “Finish your drink first.”

    I make a face, but it’s mostly for show.  An Earth me would be whining for a sandwich or pasta or something, but Mars me can still taste potatoes.  I huff in mock indignation, and drink. Todays flavour is pineapple.

    “Sorry Mark,” Sim grimaces, “I’d give you some scotch to mix in, but Liam would have my head.”

    I raise an eyebrow at him, waiting.  Nicole smacks him over the head.

    “Also uh...NASA wouldn’t let me bring any,” he said, rubbing his head sheepishly.

    “Mm-hmm.”  I finish my drink quickly, trying to ignore the chemical aftertaste.

    “He did try though,” Nicole said, glancing over at him.  “He argued his case for like...two months. Said it would be good for morale.”

    Sim shrugged helplessly.  “It would have been.”

    I stay silent, content to let their banter wash over me.  Talking is exhausting, but I could listen to other people’s conversation forever.  I spent so many sols alone, the only other voices coming through speakers or my own deteriorating mind.  So many sols playing Beck’s lecture notes on a loop, so I could hear something, _anything_ that reminded me of home.  I sigh and close my eyes, feeling safe for the first time in years.  It’s a false feeling, there are still so many things that can go wrong, but…

    A pleasant fuzz fills my head.  Something bright and warm is in me and it takes a distressing amount of time to figure out what it is.  Happy. You’re happy, Watney. I have food of sorts, I have people. I can almost pretend things are going to be alright.

    It takes me a minute to realize no one has said anything in a while.  I open my eyes to see them both looking at me. Sim stands and pulls the empty drink packet from my hand and Nicole quietly slides her laptop over to me.

    “Take your time,” she says, and with a last look at me, heads over to her lab table.

    I click it open, the messages already loaded up on the screen.

    Sim shifts from foot to foot.  “I’ll just leave ye be then,” he says, swinging his arms awkwardly.  “But I’ll be over here,” he points to his bunk, “if you need anything, anything at all.”

    “Thanks,” I say, glancing up at him briefly before going back to staring at the screen.

    He nods and walks out of my line of vision.

    My heart thuds dully in my ears as the cursor hovers over the first and most important email.  Mom was so proud of me when we found out I was going to go to space. Dad was worried. Neither of them liked that I would be gone for so long.  Both of them cried on the day of my launch. They spent four years thinking I was dead, and now they’ve found out that I’m alive, that their son was completely alone, and starving, and almost dying more than once.  I put them through that. What are they going to say?

    My eyes are already prickling.  But the laptop battery is down to 39%.  I know I’m going to re-read whatever it is they’ve sent me for at least an hour.  And I want to read the rest of them too. I blink my eyes clear, breathe deeply, and click on it.

    _Dear Mark,_

_The day you were born was the first time I ever saw your father cry.  I know that seems hard to believe, you and I have both seen him cry over the season finale of DS9, anthropomorphic office supplies, unusually sparkly sunbeams, and that one video with the turtles._

    I laugh quietly, blinking back tears.  There was more than one turtle video that made my dad cry, but I still know exactly which one she means.

    _But he never cried before you were born.  Then one day, you appeared, and suddenly everything was bright and colourful, and precious, and_ worth crying over. _The last four years without you have been more terrible than I can say.  And your dad stopped crying._

I’m trying to wipe my eyes but honestly it’s kind of futile at this point.

_When we found out you were alive, we were heartbroken.  I didn’t want to think about how much you suffered, and how this experience will hurt you for the rest of your life.  Your dad cried. And cried. And it was the happiest I’ve ever seen him. So even though we’re not there to hug you right now, don’t be afraid to let your feelings leak out your eyes.  Because the universe is beautiful with you in it. We are so proud of you. Love you._

_-Mom_

    I cover my eyes and breathe in deeply, shoulders shaking.  I’m surprised she was allowed to write that much. She’s usually pretty quiet, but once she has something to say there is no stopping her from saying it.  Dad’s usually the long-winded one, but I can’t imagine them being allowed to send two long letters like that.

    I give up on drying my tears and click on the next one.

    _Dear Son,_

    _I am really sorry, but we killed your blue spire flowers.  We watered them a lot, but they were sad you were gone and died.  We were also sad you were gone, but we did not die, which is good._

_I have a collection of funny videos to show you.  I’ve been saving them for four years, so there are a lot.  Come back soon so we can watch them together._

_Try not to swear too much on national television.  I don’t know where you learned that language but it wasn’t from me._

_I also need help with a crossword and your mother won’t give me any hints.  Miss you._

_-Dad_

_ps- you are so, so,_ so _grounded.  Grounded to infinity.  Ok, love you._

    I’m dimly aware that I’m laughing too loud, cracking up in more ways than one.  I can’t control myself- _you’re not supposed to water blue spires Christ it was mom, mom taught me the swears_ .  I’ve closed the laptop in fear I’ll hit a key or something and delete something important.  I can’t really bend forward so I’m leaning back, both arms over my face, laughing _hysterically_ .  I know they can hear me, know that every sign of instability will be dissected the second I’m asleep.  But I’m too busy trying to catch my breath to worry about it. It’s been a _long_ four years, and this feels too good to stop.

    Something in me that I hadn’t noticed getting loose clicks back into place.  I can see past my arms, through the canvas ceiling, over the millions of kilometers of cold dead space.  I can see right to the one bright spot in the universe, my dad playing a stupid cat video, my mom trying not to look amused.  Both of them waiting for me to get home so they can annoy me. I hadn’t let myself realize how much I miss them. I miss them a lot.

    I miss my crew.  I miss my city. I miss traffic and snowstorms and junk mail and all the little annoyances that mean you’re alive.  God, I miss _coffee_.

    I’m nearly not crying now.  I’m just sitting here, arms over my face, a stampede of things and places and people rushing through my heart.  Finally allowing myself to make lists of things I want to do when I get back. Watching stupid videos with my parents is at the very top.  While eating pizza. With a cat. I don’t have a cat, but damn am I going to get one.

    Someone comes back through the airlock, Liam and Martinez by the sound of it.  I ignore them in favour of trying to hold onto the feeling of not being completely miserable.  Dad killed my flowers. That’s okay.

    “When I get back I am going to grow so many vegetables,” I mutter to myself.  “And if I plant enough flowers, maybe mom and dad won’t over-water all of them.”

    “Sounds like a plan buddy,” the corner of the bed sinks as Martinez’ voice floats over.  I subtly rub my eyes with my sleeve before lifting an arm to peer at him.

    “Yeah?  ...you think my landlord would mind if I line the roof of the apartment with a few feet of soil?”

    Jeez, I hope they fixed the elevator, I am not lugging that much dirt over twenty flights of stairs.

    He shakes his head.  “Probably, but you don’t have an apartment anymore, remember?  And with what NASA’s gonna pay you you could buy a farm if that’s what you wanna do.”

    I stare at the ceiling pensively, pretending to go along with the idea.  I think we both know that’s out of the question though. Even if NASA and Ares 3 _and_ my parents somehow go along with the idea of letting me move to the middle of nowhere far from any hospitals or grocery stores, I wouldn’t want to go.  I’ve spent more than enough time isolated on a farm, if I don’t hear city noises in the morning there’s a solid chance I’ll end up a sad little astronaut who thinks he’s still on Mars.

    “What if I just like...take over one of the wings at Johnson Space Center?  I’ll sprinkle in just enough Mars dust to call it research so they’ll pay the water bill for me.”

    I’ll set it up in the hallway outside of Teddy Sanders’ office.

    “Man, they’d probably let you,” Martinez laughs.

    Liam wanders over with his laptop and a blood pressure monitor.  He arches an eyebrow at us. “Setting aside how bad that would be for the building, it’ll probably be a while before you’re able to start a garden.  I mean, your immune system is so shot they’re going to have to keep you in a clean room for a while anyway, and even once you’re allowed outside, you won’t be up for doing much manual labour for at least a few ...”

    He trails off as he notices both of us looking at him in disapproval.  He blinks.

    Martinez leans over and tugs on his lab coat.  “Liam, you are just no fun, you know that, right?”

    He nods, brows furrowed.

    “Yeah, why’re you always so grave, Graeves?” I joke, trying not to think about how long, exactly, they’re going to want to keep me isolated.

    “Sorry,” he says, holding up the monitor and looking at me questioningly.

    I roll up a sleeve and stick my arm out.  It’s okay. It’s for your own good. You’ll be out of there in no time.  And anyway...you know how to live in a box.

    I frown at the airlock while Liam takes my blood pressure.  I wish there was a real planet outside. I wish I could just go out there, doctors orders be damned, no suit or anything, and see a vibrant, lush planet with a thriving ecosystem.  A fully terraformed planet. Water everywhere, housing settlements, the garish dust covered up by greenery. ...too bad we’re going to blow it up before that can happen.

    Martinez nudges my leg and brings me out of my daydreams.  He nods towards the laptop. “Anything good on there?”

    I look down at it and smile.  I don’t care what Sanders has to say.  Honestly I don’t even feel like reading it right now, but...”My parents are ridiculous,” I grin, looking back at him.

    His eyes crinkle and he nods at me.  “Oh I know, Johanssen said they wanted to spend some time with the rest of the crew yesterday, but thought dinner was too stuffy, so they dragged everyone out for karaoke.  Apparently Beck got super wasted and Vogel has a really beautiful voice.”

    My heart skips.  They know then, the crew knows.  Liam comes back (...when did he…?) with an extra blanket and tosses it on me.  He sits down gracefully and goes to work on his laptop.

    I clench a fist in the blankets, trying not to show any anxiety.  How are they? How guilty do I need to feel for being alive? I want them to care.  But I don’t want them to feel bad. Part of me doesn’t want to draw attention to myself, wants them to continue on with their lives like nothing happened.  I don’t want to have to see them suffer. I’d rather they just ignore my existence, so I don’t have to deal with their emotions when I can’t even deal with my own.  The other part is screaming for their undivided attention- look, I’m here, I’m alive, tell me you didn’t leave me here on purpose. Tell me you love me. Never leave me again.  It’s childish, but after spending so long on my own all I want is to just be around them and be comforted. Both sides are at war with each other. It’s a battle to the death and neither one is winning.

    “How...are they?” I say tentatively, already half regretting asking.

    He blinks at me.  “Your parents?”

    I look at him and wait for his brain to catch up to my clearly superior one.

    He blinks again, frowns, and his expression clears.  “Oh.”

    “Oh,” I concur, nudging him with my leg.  “How are they?”

    He winces and wiggles a hand in an ‘eh’ gesture.  “They’re all ecstatic that you’re alive. We lost our friend and we thought he was gone forever, and that messed us up.  But then you came back. However they might feel about NASA’s failure to help you, however sad they are about what you had to go through, they are literally jumping for joy that you’re alive.”

    I play with the corner of the blanket, wanting to believe it, and deciding that I’m too tired not to.  I paste a smile on my face and meet his eyes. “Literally?”

    He nods solemnly.  “Oh yes. Especially Vogel, he was like...punching the air and jumping in circles and stuff.  Big grin on his face. Johanssen did cartwheels.”

    I snicker.  “Now I _know_ you’re lying.”

    He shakes his head in vehement denial.  “I would _never,_ ” he gasps, crossing his arms defensively.  He frowns at me in mock-hurt, and waits for me to retract my statement.  A pleasant silence drags on for a minute, neither of us willing to blink first.  The oxygenator humms its disbelief in my stead. He huffs. “Okay, maybe a little.”

    “Mm-hmm.”

    His smile falls a bit.  “Actually, Vogel just sort of sat in a chair and stared at the wall.  Johanssen cried. Lewis did too, plus she nearly punched Sanders. Beck stopped her, but only just.  They all wish they could’ve been there for you, or made this easier somehow.”

    ...I wish that too.  But we can’t go back and redo it.  We are too far past any way to make this easier.  I shift and stare at the floor, angry at myself for being upset that they weren’t here right now.  There’s no reason they would be. No reason they _could_ be.  But that doesn’t stop my stupid brain from insisting that they should.

    Martinez waves an arm at me to make me focus back on him.  “They’re determined to be there for you now. They’re all writing you letters, you’ll probably get them tomorrow.  And you can write back, ask them questions, or you can wait to write, they’ll understand. Whatever you need, they want to help you.  They can’t wait for you to get back to Earth so they can hug you for like...a million years. You can’t get rid of us, you’ll probably get sick of seeing us all the time.”

    I lean back with a sigh, and take a long look at him.  He has some grey in his hair now. There are some lines on his face that weren’t there before.  His eyes are the same. Behind him, a younger Martinez makes a silly face. My eyes drift to the empty space  between the two of them. I’ve seen a lot of Martinez over the last four years. Despite it being a sign of my  brain cells dying, despite being a little afraid for myself every time he appeared, I was always happier when he was there.  I’m not going to get sick of seeing anyone.

    Real Martinez pokes my leg.  “You ok, buddy?”

    I look back at him, surreally finding my hallucinated Martinez the more realistic looking of the two.  The Martinez in my head is still young and bright eyed, like I remember. He jokes a lot more, he smiles more.  The Martinez sitting on my bed is older and more tired and he still jokes, but there’s a sadness behind it. He feels like an impostor.  I probably seem the same to him. I shake my head to bring myself back and smile weakly.

    “Yeah, fine.  Just...seeing double,” I chuckle at my own joke.

    Liam stands up suddenly and I jump at the movement, my heart racing.  I clutch my chest and look at him in bewilderment as he turns my head to both sides and flashes a light in my eyes, looking alarmed.

    “What are you doing?”  I’m staring at him bug eyed as he holds up a finger for me to look at.

    “How long have you been seeing double,” he asks in concern.  “You should have said something. Follow my finger with your eyes.”

    I blink at him and lean back, swatting his hand from my face.  “What- no, that was an inside joke. I’m fine, back you mad doctor.”

    He frowns up at Martinez who looks at me in confusion, then looks back and shakes his head.  “I have no idea.”

    Liam turns a scowling face back to me and brandishes a stethoscope in my direction.

    I roll my eyes at both of them and wave my arms at Liam to keep him away.  “Inside joke with myself, I’m _fine_ , shoo.”

    He sits back down reluctantly, and I can relax a little.  His eyebrows are still drawn together as he looks me over from a safe distance, unconvinced.  I glance across the room and see Sim hastily looking back at his laptop. In the other corner Nicole sits at her lab table with her back to me, but she’s sitting up straighter than looks comfortable.

    “Explain what you meant,” Liam waves a hand at me, staring intently.

    Oh no.  I know better than to tell a NASA doctor that oh hey I’m hallucinating and hearing things and I’m still not sure any of this is real and I still want to die, by the way please don’t lock me up forever.

    I stick my tongue out at him.  “Nope. Everyone knows a joke’s not funny if you have to explain it.”

    His frown lessens but he doesn’t stop staring.  “Mark. This is important, we need to know what’s going on if we want to help you.  Please, explain what you meant.”

    I’ve spent so much time talking to myself over the last few years that it’s physically difficult not to answer reflexively.  I look away from him to stop my stupid mouth from saying anything it shouldn’t. In my attempts to thwart the evil doctor graves I accidentally catch Martinez’ eyes.  The look of concern and caring catches me so off guard that I blurt out half a sentence before stopping myself.

    “I’ve been-”  I slap a hand over my mouth and look at him, panicked.  He puts a hand on my leg and doesn’t drop the expression.  I swear he’s doing that on purpose. My eyes are watering and I shake my head and look at the floor before I can spill my guts out.

    “It’s fine,” I squeak out.  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

    There’s a pause, and then- “Watneyyyy,” he whines, “talk to your frieeends.”

    A relieved laugh escapes me before I can catch it.  If he’s whining like that I’ve already mostly gotten away with it.  I shake my head and admire how clean their Hab floor is.

    “I’ll get you a cat,” he bribes, pawing at me like a kid.

    “Lies!  You said Curiosity killed them all!”  Don’t look at him, don’t look at him, don’t-

    “Actually, I’ve got one here.”

    I glance at him against my will, even though I know, _I know_ of course he doesn’t have one.  He’s still got that expression on his face and I’m sunk.   _Shit.  I can’t look away._

    “So-” he starts, but is interrupted by the sound of the airlock decompressing.

    _Saved by the fucking bell_.

    I turn my head to look at the airlock and he throws his hands up in exasperation.

    “Alright man, I give up.”

    I smile victoriously, knowing better than to look back, and watch Kim and Félix appear through the doorway.  They’re looking in my direction so I lift Ollie up from his perch next to me and wave his paw at them. Kim grins and waves back.  Félix looks like he’s got some more soil samples and as he sets them down on his lab table he takes a long look at my pile of assorted pieces of Mars.

    Martinez slides himself off the bed and stands, stretching.  I eye him jealously. I remember when I could do that.

    “Not that I don’t like annoying you, but I do actually have real astronaut work to do,” he says, looking disappointed at having a job.  “Want me to plug that in for you?” He points to the closed laptop, which has been frantically flashing red for the last five or so minutes.

    I nod and hand it over with a ‘thanks’, and watch him plug it into a power bar, just out of reach.

    “I’ll be right back, alright?  Just gonna grab my laptop.”

    A twinge of guilt hits me for giving him a hard time.  HAB chairs are pretty uncomfortable and sitting awkwardly on a bed is even more so.  I don’t want him getting any older on my watch and I know how bad weird seats can be for your back.

    “No, it’s cool,” I say before he can leave.  “You can sit on your bed if you want. Wouldn’t want to distract you with my brilliance.”

    He shrugs and eyes his bed longingly, then looks back at me.  I swear I can hear his bones creaking. “You sure? I could use a light bulb.”

    Ha ha.  I make a shooing motion at him.  He nods and shuffles off, walking right through his younger self on the way.  Not-Martinez flickers and disappears. My chest hurts.

    The ghost that I am now disappears as well, leaving a hollow shell sitting in the bed where I used to be.  It stares, unblinking, at nothing, while the hum of the oxygenator fills it. Just at the edge of its range of hearing, a cup rattles on a metal table.  The humming takes it over, consuming the shell. It rises in pitch, spilling over its brain and into its heart, the noise now so deafening that it starts shaking with it.  Glazed eyes are obscured as it blinks, slowly. It blinks again, and with a quiet gasp for air, life returns to it.

    I’m back.  But I’m not back.  I can’t pull my eyes away from the empty spot of air where not-Martinez was.  I think I’m breathing shallowly but I can hear it in my ears, hear my heartbeat thudding off-beat as my soul regenerates.  I feel like my brain is wrapped in a layer of bubblewrap. This...whatever this is...was designed to protect me from going completely off my rocker when I was alone.  But I can’t function like this. I can’t focus on anything. I’m permanently set to sleep mode and no amount of clicking the mouse or frantically hitting enter on the keyboard is waking me up from it.  No one will hold down the power button, and I’ve lost my chance to do it.

    I give up and just let myself exist.  My eyes will move when they want to, I guess.  I relax into my shell and don’t fight the layer of fog that descends upon my mind.  Just under it, “Space Oddity” plays on a loop. I blink slowly. I breathe shallowly.  I listen.

    I don’t know how much time has passed by the time I come back to myself, but Liam has moved to his lab table and Sim and Kim have changed into pyjamas.  Martinez and Nicole are playing some sort of card game and Félix is on his bed, typing with one hand and eating what looks like trail mix with the other.

    I wonder what time it is in Chicago.

    I rub my eyes and try not to think about how much I need to go to the bathroom.  I look ruefully in it direction. How am I supposed to get there again with no knees and half a back?  Roll? Levitate? Step one is getting up, I guess, but then what?

    I get as far as straightening my back and pushing myself an inch off the pillow before my arms give out and I drop back down.  I scowl at the ceiling. This is garbage. I lived through four years of eating basically nothing, dug a tunnel in a canyon wall while half-dead and halfway to nowhere, and now I can’t even get up.  Crap. I’m going to have to go through the proper channels, aren’t I?

    Reluctantly, I flag Liam down from across the room and there’s an awkward affair of being lifted onto a rolling chair and pushed over.  After a brief argument I was left alone to do my business and wash my hands. Someone takes pity on me and gives me a toothbrush and toothpaste and I try to use it, hands listlessly moving the bristles slowly over my teeth.  I’m not doing it right. I don’t have the energy. Afterwards they wheel me back to my bed (whose was it before I showed up?) and settle me back onto it.

    I don’t want to talk to anyone, so I feign being tired and close my eyes.  I lie still and listen to them, the clicking of a keyboard, hushed conversations, rustling of blankets.  The oxygenator hums in the background. Eventually the sounds fall away, leaving only the quiet loop of “Space Oddity”, still playing in my head.  After seven renditions of it, it too falls away and I’m out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was kind of short, so have a bonus long one.


	16. Martian Heat Wave

Sol 1421

      I wake up not sure if I ever actually fell asleep or just hovered around the idea of it.  My mind is muffled, wrapped up in a familiar ball of fuzzy uncaring and the world is swaying gently back and forth to some inaudible music.  I swing my feet over the side of the bed and stand at the window. It’s raining.

      “Hey Watney,” I say.  Or I think I did. My mouth moved and my throat tightened and that’s what the subtitles say.

      “Yeah?” Martinez answers.

      He’s green, and blurry around the edges.  Someone has gone over him with a highlighter again.  Kids.

      “How long until we get there?” I ask, gesturing lazily towards the window.  We’re speeding towards Earth. I hope he remembers to slow down before we hit the atmosphere.

      “Oh, theeere?” he draws out the word, slouching.  He’s petting a cat. No, a seal. That’s a seal. “You know.  Maybe? I guess what you really want to know is...”

      I nod.  It’s warm in here.  Sim has set the oxygenator on fire and is roasting marshmallows on it.  He hands me one. It tastes like plastic and cough medicine.

      “Where is Mark Watney?” he asks, his eyes suddenly filling my vision.

      “Hmmm?” is all I can manage, sinking 10 cm into the bed.  The fire has spread to half of the Hab, but nobody seems concerned by it.

      “Where is Mark Watney?” signals Martinez in semaphore, from Earth.

      “Where is Mark Watney?” barks the seal.

      “Where is Mark Watney?” blare the Hab alarms.

      My mouth moves.  My throat tightens.

      “Who the fuck is Mark Watney?” read the subtitles.

      The film catches fire.

 

* * *

 

      Ughhhh.  I have got to stop waking up like this.  I try to put a hand to my pounding head, mentally vowing to just never sleep again, but miss and smack myself in the face.  Mghrh. I lift my hand up a little and let it smack back down, but it does nothing to make me think any clearer. I feel gross.

      The Hab is quiet.  There is a suspicious lack of people laughing at me hitting myself.  I open my eyes with a huff, but the world looks the same. I frown into my arm.  My head hurts and I can’t see. I shift my arm off my eyes. The world reappears.  My head still hurts.

      The Hab is dark except for a small lamp on my left.  Liam sits next to it, tiredly squinting at his laptop.

      Why aren’t you asleep like the rest of them, I try to mentally convey.  He doesn’t react. C’mon do I have to carry this whole conversation by myself?  I flop an arm weakly in his direction. He looks at me over the screen and I pull my eyebrows into a question mark.

      “You’ve got a slight fever Mark,” he whispers.  “Don’t worry, we’re keeping a close eye on it. The timing could have been better, but we expected this to happen.”

      Why do you look so worried then?

      “Try to go back to sleep,” he gently moves my hand back onto the bed.

      I try to explain that I just vowed to never do that again, but someone has turned off the subtitles.   _ I can’t sleep _ , I tell Ollie.  He doesn’t answer.

 

Sol 4

Liam Graeves

      He’d been listlessly staring at the same page of medical notes for so long that when a voice made him look up the text hovered annoyingly in front of his vision.  He squinted in the general direction of the sound.

      “Sorry?”

      “How is he,” Kim repeated quietly.

      He looked over at the haggard man sleeping beside him.  He was a wreck. His time on Mars was not kind to him. Every sol spent digging in the dirt and fighting for water and crawling over hills and rocks showed on his face.  But in defiance of all laws of probability, he was alive. Just watching his chest rise and fall filled him with a sort of pride for humanity that he didn’t know he was capable of feeling.

      “He’s...not great,” he said eventually, looking back at his commander.

      She pulled up a chair and sat heavily on it, waving him to elaborate.

      “Well, aside from the starvation, the muscle atrophy, the bone density loss, the injured knees and back, and the assorted mental issues that come with spending four years in isolation on a death planet eating nothing but potatoes…,” he watched her lower her head into her hands, “he’s getting sick.”

      “How bad is this going to be for him,” she groaned, pulling her feet up onto the chair, “and what can we do about it?”

      “That posture is bad for your back, commander.”

      She scowled and kicked a foot in his direction, but it didn’t reach.  She slouched further, deliberately.

      “It’s comfortable.”

      “Is it?  You look like you’re going to fall off.  Also your neck is at a really weird angle.”

      “Liam.  Watney. Status.”

      “Right.”  He looked back down at his laptop, the screen blinding, despite being on the lowest brightness setting.  His eyes saw letters but refused to focus on the words. He gave up and closed it.

      “His immune system is shot.  His body hasn’t had to deal with foreign bacteria in four years, so now it can’t keep up.  He’d be getting sick even if he weren’t nearly dead from starvation, but as it is he doesn’t have the energy to fight infections properly.  This could be really dangerous for him.”

      He leaned over to set the laptop on the table next to him and his back made an unpleasant creaking noise.  Kim smirked at him. He was too tired to come up with a retort.

      “If it was anyone else I’d say they wouldn’t make it back to Earth,” he continued.  “Mark’s being alive right now is breaking the laws of medical science. I don’t know how long he can keep that up.”

      Kim’s face fell.  She took a long look at Mark, before slouching the rest of the way off the chair and sitting on the floor.  “Make it your job to ensure those laws stay broken,” she ordered, scooting closer to the bed and leaning against the frame.

      Liam sighed.  He wanted nothing more than to obey, but it was easier said than done.

      “If we were on Earth we’d have him isolated in a clean room.  Unfortunately there’s no way of doing that here. I’d set him up in the MAV, but it’s too far.  And it has no facilities or space for a bed. Plus he’s already been exposed to us, I’m not sure it would do much good anyway.”

      Kim leaned her head back and considered the ceiling.

      “Could we...I don’t know, set him up in a pop-tent or something?  God knows more isolation isn’t what he needs, but if it would help...”

      “It wouldn’t.”

      “That’s it?”

      He nodded seriously.  “If we had done that since day one, and only allowed one or two of us to visit, it might have delayed this.  But he was always going to get sick. And to be honest, keeping people away from him might have done more harm than the bacteria.”

      She frowned at Watney, willing him to get better.  “What do you mean?”

      He sighed and tried to ignore the headache growing behind his eyes.  “Mark needs people. Everyone needs people, but judging from his file, Mark was an especially social person.  I prefer to be left alone most of the time, and even I start to get uncomfortable if I go for more than a week without talking to anyone.  Mark was alone for four years. And remember, he couldn’t go outside, couldn’t exercise, couldn’t listen to his favourite music. He couldn’t do any of the things people do to try to fight depression.”

      Kim stared at Sojourner, and the potato flag on it, trying to imagine what it must have been like.  She shuddered. She’d have gone mad.

      “And on top of it,” he continued softly, “he had to fight for his life, doing manual labour he didn’t have the nutrients for, modifying complicated vehicles so he could make it to Schiaparelli, and also  _ blowing himself up _ .  By himself.  While the whole world thought he was dead.  If find it impossible to believe he did not spend a great deal of his four years here thinking about killing himself.  Certainly I would have.”

      They sat in silence, Liam keeping an eye on Mark, Kim eying the rest of the crew.  They were her responsibility. She’d do anything to protect them. Rick was closer to Mark than anyone, it would break him if Mark didn’t make it.  Sim had already befriended the man. Nicole kept asking about his health all day. Even Félix had a soft spot for him, and probably had about a million botany questions to ask.  Her eyes drifted to Liam. He hadn’t stopped working since they landed, still somehow managing to continue his own experiments while taking care of Mark. He was exhausted. He needed his patient to recover.  They all did. Mark Watney was one of them.

      “What can we do,” she asked, “how can we even his odds?”

      Liam sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily.  “Not much, I’m afraid. We need to keep his spirits up as much as we need to keep his fever down.  Give him something to fight for. Remind him there are people waiting for him on Earth, and they need to see him alive.  And give him as many nutrients and calories as his body can handle.”

      She watched him try and fail to stifle a yawn.  She was tired just looking at him.

      “Alright Graeves, get up,” she ordered, climbing to her feet.  He blinked blearily at her. “You heard me. Get your butt to bed, I’m taking over watching him.  You tell us what and when to feed him, and from now on we take turns. I’m not gonna let you collapse.”

      He nodded tiredly and moved to grab his laptop, but Kim put a hand over it.

      “You don’t need that to sleep.  Scram.”

      He huffed but stood anyway, checking over Watney one last time before giving her a nod.

      “Goodnight, Liam,” she ordered, taking his seat.

      “...goodnight, Kim.  He should have drink supplement C when he gets up.  Wake me if there’s any change.”

      She waved him off, and he made his way to his bunk, still managing to walk gracefully despite his exhaustion.  Guy must have been an elf in a past life, she thought to herself. She watched him long enough to make sure he was actually going to sleep before pulling out her headphones and music.  She pulled her feet up onto the chair, posture be damned, and settled in for a long night.   
  



	17. Space Botany, mais en français

Sol 1422

My face is on fire, my mind is sluggish, my limbs are next to useless.  I keep telling myself not to panic but I feel like I could keep the Hab warm with my body heat alone.  Whatever it is my body is fighting, it’s losing.

I’m accustomed to the feeling of not wanting to get out of bed.  There’s nobody to judge you when you’re alone on Mars, and it’s not like there’s anywhere to go.  I couldn’t really walk to the corner café for coffee and a bagel. There were no appointments to keep.  I had some bad patches where for weeks it was a struggle to will myself to get up. It is an entirely new feeling though, not being able to.  I don’t like it.

I groan and try to pry my eyes open, but they don’t cooperate.  I swear to god if I die now after all that I’m going to scream.

I’d gotten too used to my rainforest Hab, and then my radioactive superheated rover.  This scratchy blanket is not enough to keep my stick body warm. Or maybe it’s the fever.  I shiver slightly and try to curl into a ball, but I’m lying on my back and can’t be bothered to roll over.  I cross my arms over my chest and frown against the cold. If I get back to Earth I’m going to buy the warmest heated blanket in existence and never come out.

I wish I could fall back asleep, but Mars won’t shut up.  Earth bacteria is what let me grow the potatoes that kept me alive this whole time, and now Earth bacteria is what’s killing me.  Mars, apparently, finds this fucking hilarious, cackling eerily over the light winds outside.

I scrunch up my face in annoyance and try to pull the blanket up, but it’s already at my neck.  I’m still cold. Except for my face, which as we’ve established, is on fire. I hate this planet.

I crack my eyes open to peer blearily at my current babysitter.  It’s Félix’s turn to sit next to me, drawing in a sketchbook and listening to some sort of French folk music I don’t recognize.  He looks content. A pang of jealousy hits me before I can stop it. I can’t remember the last time I felt like that.

Crap, he noticed that I’m awake.  Alright, smile for the camera, Watney.

“Ah, Mark,” he smiles, shutting off the music.  “How do you feel?”

Like death.

I make a scratchy sort of ehh noise at him and he nods sympathetically.

“Liam wants you to drink this,” he motions to another stupid drink thing.

I don’t remember much of the previous sol, I think I spent most of it asleep, but I do remember them making me drink these things pretty much every time I woke up.  I am officially sick of them. I want real food. I want pancakes with raspberries. I want pizza. I want every vegetable known to man.

“Do I have tooo.” I whine as he helps me sit up.  I screw my eyes shut as my back screams bloody murder.  I miss my RTG bath.

“Sorry Mark,” he fluffs up the pillow before leaning me against it.  “You need to keep your energy up to get better. You have people who are waiting for you.”

He hands me the drink and I stare miserably at it.  I shouldn’t complain. It’s better than what I had before.  But my face is burning and the rest of me is cold and I feel nauseous looking at it.  I never had this much sustenance before, my body is still trying to get used to it. How much could it hurt, really, to skip a meal?

“Aouaille, Watney,” he nudges my shoulder.  “Lâche pas la patate.”

I take a slow sip of it.  Peach.

“What did you call me?”

He ruffles his hair sheepishly.  “Euh...don’ drop the potato. Don’t give up, Mark.  You got stuff to do, keep working towards it.”

I squint suspiciously at him.  How many stupid potato expressions could humanity have possibly invented?

“You just made that up,” I accuse.

He laughs and shakes his head vehemently.  “Non! It’s a pretty common expression where I grew up!”

I fiddle with the straw, still queasy.  “Where’s that again? Montreal?”

He spins his pen.  “No, a smaller town up north, but they say that in Montreal too,” he answers, and eyes me shrewdly.  “If you drink that I’ll tell you about it.”

I pull a face but take another sip anyway.  My stomach rebels. I swallow and try not to throw up.  All I want to do is sit here and listen to people, I didn’t sign up for this.  I raise my eyebrows at him expectantly. He closes his sketchbook and leans back.

“Okay, well, I grew up in a small town called Saint-Louis du Ha! Ha!,” he starts.

I choke on my drink, trying and failing to inhale and laugh at the same time.  My eyes are streaming and my face is on fire (still). He watches me in concern but I manage to croak out an “I’m fine” between coughs.  It takes a few minutes before I regain the power of speech.

“That,” I gasp, pointing at him, “is not a real town name.”

He grins, but denies it.  “It is a real name, it’s in my file and everything.”

“How do you spell it then,” I demand.  Saint-Louwee du haha my eye.

He writes it down for me.  I stare at it incredulously.

“TWO EXCLAMATION MARKS?!  What kind of town has two exclamation marks in its name?!  Now I know you’re having me on. Where are you really from?”

“I’m from Saint-Louis,” he grins.

“I knew it.”

“Du Ha! Ha!” he finishes.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

He puffs up his chest proudly.  “Mark, don’t be jealous just because you grew up in a town with a boring name like Chicago.”

I shake my head and try to stop smiling.  My face hurts from disuse. I close my eyes and breathe for a moment.  My brain tells me it’s not a real place, but my heart wants it to be true, so I believe it.

“Okay.  Saint-Louis du Ha! Ha! It is.”

His eyes crinkle, but he doesn’t seem to be laughing at my gullibility.  Maybe it is true.

“Tell me about it?”

He points to my drink.  This is blackmail. I take another sip, it stays down easier this time.  He clicks his pen thoughtfully, then catches himself and stops.

“It’s a very small town, there’s less than 2000 people in it,” he starts, brown eyes drifting to the ceiling.  He frowns slightly and spins his pen. “We have...eum...a golf club. Hills. Farms. Forests. There’s like...three streets.  We are still waiting on high speed Internet.”

I sip my drink cautiously, letting his voice overtake the laughter in the distance.  Talking is exhausting, but  _ listening,  _ listening is the most beautiful thing imaginable.  After four years of not hearing people, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it.  It’s so calming, just letting the sounds wash over me, that it becomes difficult to hear the words.  He starts describing the farm he grew up on with his sisters and my attention starts to wander against my will.  All that staring into space that got me through my sols alone is coming back to bite me. I shiver against the cold and force myself to focus.

He waves a hand in exasperation, dropping his pen in the process.

“So now every time I try to tell my aunt that I’m an astronaut, and a botanist, and a geologist, Catherine tells her it’s because the farm was too big for me and I needed to run off to grow potted plants in space instead,” he shakes his head with a rueful smile.  “P’tite niaseuse. Because up on the Hermes she’s not there to tell me I’m doing it wrong. C’est une joke, but Tante Manon believes her anyway. What can you do.”

I nod politely, wishing I had siblings to annoy me.  I chew on the end of the straw, my mind drifting to my family, then to my crew, before my train of thought runs out of steam and sits motionless on the tracks.  I stare at the end of the bed while a sort of white noise fills my head. ...There’s a spot of light on the metal frame of the bed that I can’t seem to look away from.  My head is buzzing. The spot of light takes up my entire focus, the rest of the room falling away.

It’s a few minutes before I realize that Félix hasn’t said anything in a while.  I blink away from the bed frame to look at him. He’s watching me carefully, probably deciding whether or not to call Liam.  Act normal, Watney.

“Welcome back Mark,” he says, looking slightly relieved.

I shrug.  “I never left,” I lie.

He eyes me dubiously but doesn’t comment.  Change the subject, Watney. Figure out what’s wrong with you later.  There are people watching now.

“So...what made you decide to become an astronaut,” I ask, smoothing out the blankets to camouflage my shaking hands.

He doesn’t say anything, but looks at me pointedly.  Why is h...oh. I scowl, taking another sip of the peach concoction.  It’s almost empty anyway.

“Not much to tell,” he answers, leaning down to scoop up the pen he’d dropped.  “We have an observatory called Aster. I loved it, it was my favourite thing as a kid.  In a town full of people looking down, looking at dirt, looking at crops, looking at animal tracks, looking at snow accumulation, Aster made me look up.  The stars,” he smiles, eyes shining in admiration, “they make you curious. Make you want to learn more. Make you want to see how far us tiny humans can go.  We are small, Mark. We are minuscule. But look how much we can accomplish,” he gestures at me, and some of the cold fades away from my chest.

“Look how much you accomplished, you lived, Mark.  On Mars! That is...” he tucks his pen behind his ear and waves his arm around in one smooth motion, “Incredible!  You proved that we can live, for a while at least, on another planet. Exploring the universe is still far away, but you, you’ve brought us one step closer, Mark,” he finishes and stares at me, something like pride in his eyes.  My eyes are misting up, and I look away, pulling at the corners of the drink package. All I did was get stranded here. I don’t deserve your praise.

I’m starting to smile despite myself, trying to squash the warm glow filling me.  I’ve always wanted to be a part of this- first we make tools, then we make rockets, then we step into space...after a long series of hardships and failures and unlikely successes, we reach the nearest planet, then the nearest solar system, the nearest galaxy.  The nearest inhabited neighbour. I’d always hoped that in my own small way, I could pave the way towards a future where we find out we’re not alone out here. I never wanted it to be like this. I guess you don’t choose your destiny.

“Now finish your drink,” he orders, leaning against the arm-rest.  “We need you to get better, so you can tell us how you got this far.  Then humanity can learn from you, and we can get even farther.”

I sip the drink slowly, embarrassed.  His eyes are still shining at me. I look back at him, then away, hoping he’ll stop.

“You know how I got this far, I told you,” I mumble.

He shakes his head, amused.  “Seems like maybe you left some stuff out,” he smiles gently.  “You don’t need to tell us right away, Mark. It will no doubt be difficult  for you. We understand you need time to heal. But I hope one day, you will be able to share it.”

I shrug, being careful not to think about past or future.  “If you really want to know, you can watch the logs,” I mutter, staring at the drink package, trying to psych myself up to finish it.

His eyes widen and he leans forward.  “You kept logs?! You documented your process?  The potatoes, the drive, everything?”

I yawn, somehow still exhausted no matter how much sleep I get.  I nod absently. “All 1400 sols of it. Well, okay I didn’t exactly record them every day, but often enough.  I also recorded the results of the experiments my crew was supposed to do and left me saddled with. And uh...” I think of alternate universe Mark Watney, making it back to Earth, flooding his suit with nitrogen, dying in a solar flare, “...some other stuff.  That I worked on when I was bored.”

Félix runs a hand over his face, still staring wide-eyed at me.  “You did the experiments,” he says weakly.

I take a deep breath, exhale, and drink the last of the peach thing.  I hold my breath until the nausea passes, and swallow. The back of my head flashes cold for a second then goes back to being on fire.  I shiver.

“I did a lot of things,” I mutter under my breath.  My eyes dart to where the med kit is kept on the far side of the room.  A lot of things, but not that.

A silence passes between us, he staring pensively at the wall, me staring into the space between molecules.  My head thuds in time to my heartbeat. My conscious hovers just outside myself. My face burns, my body freezes.  Mars laughs. I blink drowsily.

“Those soil samples…,” Félix starts, and I jump.  I’d forgotten he was there. I turn my cotton-filled head back towards him.  My neck creaks. He’s looking at my pile of stuff, still jumbled together near the airlock.  I shudder and avert my eyes. I don’t want to be reminded of days on the road, hiding from the sun and trying to drive in a straight line, trying not to go mad from it all.

“Could I look at them,” he asks hesitantly.  He looks back at me.

For a beat, I want to say no.  That’s mine to deal with; my misery, my suffering, my chains on my soul.  I’m used to carrying the weight of it, but it’s too heavy for anyone else.  If they look too closely they’ll be able to see it, I’m sure. They’ll see right through my feigned composure to the wreck that I actually am.

I made the logs, yes.  There’s probably all kinds of valuable data on the psychological impact of prolonged living with stress and isolation.  I always expected people to watch them, to know what happened and learn from it. Knowing that it could help people is what kept me going a lot of the time.  ...but I always thought I’d be dead when they watched them. I tried to be optimistic, sure, but underneath the faked confidence that I’d make it to Ares 4, I knew I was dead.  I never thought I’d have to live with _ consequences _ .

“Mark?  Are you alright?”  Félix leans forward and puts a hand on my forehead.  He frowns. “Your fever is rising.”

I let my eyes drift to the potatoes.  To the rock samples, still taped to Sojourner.  To the flag. To the soil samples. All the things, I realize, that were on the outside of the rovers.  They only went in to get me.

The ferns, the shovel-guitar, the logs, the laptops, the camera...everything else is still in the rovers.

I close my eyes, exhausted, and frustrated with myself.  Why did I do all that damn digging if I’m not letting anyone look at it?

“You can look at the soil samples,” I answer finally, opening my eyes.  He’s gone. He reappears a moment later, Liam in tow.

“The soil samples,” I mumble at Félix, as I sink tiredly into the pillows.  “You can look at them. There’s some ferns and the logs in the rovers too. But...” it’s nearly impossible to keep my eyes open.  “Don’t...watch the logs yet, okay?”

His answer is lost to the cotton in my head.  I give up on staying awake, trying one last time to pull up the blanket, already at my neck, before falling out of the world.


	18. How can we sleep when our beds are burning?

Sol 1423

      The hab is overheating.  We put the temperature up to help the potatoes grow, but something somewhere is broken; the heat keeps rising and we can’t get it back down.  It’s stifling, the waves of it distorting the faces of my crew-mates. It’s all I can do not to pass out.

      Six of us, stranded here.

      I look at the thanksgiving potatoes.  I don’t need to do the math to know we’ll never make it.  There’s never going to be enough. Not even for one of us.  My eyes are watering but the tears turn to steam before they can fall.  I don’t want to watch them die.

      There’s no way to even contact NASA to say goodbye to our families.  I look tiredly at the human shaped blob I think is Martinez. It’s not fair.  His kids deserve to have a father.

      “It’s you,” blob Martinez says.  His voice is garbled, like he’s underwater.

      “Me,” I repeat, disoriented.

      “You’re making the computer sick,” another blob says.

      “We have to put you in isolation,” says the middle one.

      The back of my neck prickles.

      “It’s for your own good, Watney,” garbles Martinez, oozing slowly towards me.

      I’m trying to back up, but my legs are weak from heat stroke, and there’s nowhere to move anyway.  Everything is dirt. It’s everywhere, in my EVA boots, in my lungs.

      “Just for a little while,” whispers the one on the end.

      They close in on me, these faceless shapes that used to be my crew-mates.  They’re not my crew. Mars got to them. Mars destroyed them. Ice hands lift me and carry me out the airlock.  The landing struts aren’t empty anymore. In the center of them, the rovers spin on a revolving car platform.

      “You can come back,” soothes one of them, patting my head, “when you’re feeling better.”

      They throw me into the rover and I scream, scrambling for the handle, but it won’t open.  I can’t- I can’t be in here again, I can’t take it. Not for another sol, not another minute.  Let me out. Let me out let me out let me

      A spot of light dances on the dash in front of me.  I look frantically for the source. The sun is glinting off of the morphine needle half-hidden behind the shovel.

      “Let me out,” I whisper hoarsely, picking it up.

      The winds howl.  I place it against my arm.

      “Let me out.”

* * *

 

      I stutter awake, bile in my throat.  The Hab is still overheating. The potatoes won’t last.  We’re going to die. I shiver and flail my arm to grab at the morphine which I dropped, but I’m being restrained somehow.   I inhale shakily and force my eyes open. Restraints become blankets I’m too weak to move. I twitch my arm and my back catches fire.  I screw my eyes shut and moan pitifully.

      “Watney?”

      Martinez’ voice floats in from somewhere to my right.  I hold my breath and shake my head, trying not to throw up.

      “C’mon man, you gotta drink this,” he pesters, shaking my shoulder.  Each movement sends a jolt of pain to my back.

      “Ssstopp,” I manage to grind out.

      He stops, but doesn’t leave.  “Eyes open, buddy.”

      My head is pounding.  I groan in protest but manage to obey.  My eyes are watering and I turn my stiff neck to look at him miserably.

      He nods sympathetically.  “Yeah, I know.”

      He holds up some pills in a cup and shakes another drink at me.  I feel nauseous just looking at it. I turn my head away, my burning face finding the cool part of the pillow and feeling better for half a second.

      “C’mon dude, I don’t want to get stuck with four years worth of your paperwork,” he needles.  Isn’t he the sweetest? I can’t find it in me to do anything more than make a croaky sort of noise in the back of my throat.

      There’s a moment of blissful silence.  My face is burning and I try unsuccessfully to ignore it.  I just want to go back to sleep until this is over. I try to focus on the oxygenator, hoping the familiar sound will make my head stop doing that.

      “...nope, sorry dude, I know you’re awake.  Sim, could you give me a hand,” Martinez calls across the room.  Something is skipping towards me but I can’t make myself care, halfway asleep already.

      I’m violently jolted back to consciousness as two sets of arms lift me into a sitting position.  Lightning runs through my back and a strangled noise gets past my vocal chords. I’m leaned back against the headboard and I breathe sharply, waiting for it to pass.

      After a minute I open my watery eyes to glare at the pair of them.  Martinez is smiling brightly at me. Sim looks genuinely remorseful.

      “Sorry Mark,” he holds out his hands in a gesture of peace.  “We just don’t want ye to be sick any more ‘n you need to be.”

      I scrunch up my face but can’t will myself to answer.  My head is heavy and it’s all I can manage to stay upright.  Martinez holds the pills out to me and I look at him pleadingly.  I’m just going to throw it up.

      “C’mon Watney,” he’s still smiling, but I can feel the layer of worry underneath it.  “It’ll make you feel better.”

      I huff tiredly, but manage to lift a leaden arm to take it.  When he passes me the drink I nearly cry, but accept it anyway.  He watches me take it and I feel a twinge of annoyance. I took care of myself for four years, I don’t need you to watch and make sure I’m not gonna throw away my medicine like a child.

      He smiles proudly and I scowl irritably.  God’s sake, don’t be proud of me for  _ that _ .  I chew on the straw, trying to avoid actually drinking it.  I don’t know how much sleep I’m getting, but it’s not enough.  I try to slink back down to a lying position but Martinez isn’t having it.

      “Nuh-uh,” he grabs a pillow from another bunk and stuffs it behind my back.  “Finish your drink and I’ll think about letting you go back to sleep.”

      “Mrghl.”

      “I mean it Watney.  If you die on my watch, I’ll never hear the end of it from Lewis.  Plus you owe it to your mission commander to share your findings.”

      I sip the damn drink slowly and hold my breath until I’m brave enough to swallow.  I scowl at the wall in front of me. “I left her my rock collection,” I grumble.

      “Aye, and your dirt,” Sim grins brightly, “just one more mess before ye go.”

      I crack a smile despite myself and nod at him.  “Precisely.”

      Martinez is uncharacteristically unamused.  “Well I don’t want to have to break it to the rest of our crew that you died because you were too stubborn to take care of yourself,” he nudges my arm gently but insistently, “so finish that and stay alive.”

      I clench my fist and try to remind myself where he’s coming from.  I’ve been dead for four years. And now I’m back, but I might die. And I’m joking about it.  I cast my eyes down miserably. I have to joke about it. Otherwise I’ll start crying.

      “Sorry,” he says, after a long silence.  “It’s just...I want to see you get better.  Like... right now. And you can’t. And there’s nothing I can do about it,” he slouches and kicks a leg up on my bed.  Sim sits quietly and pretends not to listen.

      I let out a long breath.  I don’t have the energy to be comforting you.  I don’t have the energy to think about your feelings.  I can barely keep up with my own emotions. But Martinez is my best friend and I want to get rid of that facial expression.

      “You’re doing fine,” I say.  He swings the other leg up on the bed and stares at his feet.

      “Yeah?”

      I’m too wiped to answer, so I take a long sip of my drink and swallow.  I just barely manage to keep it down, but it’s enough to make him smile.  Good. That was exhausting. I don’t know how people work anymore.

      By the time I finish the package forty minutes later my mind has descended into nothing but static.  I can’t think straight. When Martinez and Sim finally help me lie back down, the lightning in my back barely registers.  I don’t remember what it’s like to not be tired.

      I pull the blanket up, wish I had another one, and pass out.


	19. You know why

Sol 1424 

      When I was a teenager, all I wanted from adulthood was a job that would allow me to sleep in every single day.  I don’t know why I thought space botany would help me accomplish that, god knows how many sleepless nights and early mornings I had training for this mission.  Maybe I figured time has no meaning in space so I’m technically always sleeping in. Whatever. The point is, I’ve finally done it. I have been reunited with other humans for a full week now and I have slept in every damn day.

      I’m sick of it.  I’m sick of lying down.  I’m sick of this bed. I’m also just sick in general.  Liam informs me that my fever has gone down slightly but I’m not out of the woods yet.  Kind of a mean thing to say to a guy who hasn’t really seen greenery since 2035.

      So yeah.  Still in bed.  Lying around. Well, sitting around anyway.  And let me tell you what an adventure sitting up was.  My back is murder. Moving is agony, but not moving is also smaller agony.  I think constant bed-rest is supposed to be not good for you? But so is killing both your knees at the same time, apparently.  It’s a balance we’re trying to work out. Liam’s on the phone (so to speak) with NASA right now trying to figure out what to give me for it.  I don’t even get a heat pad in the meantime because of my fever.

      I’ve been watching him type, and wait, and read, and type again for the better part of two hours.  Sim’s laptop is open in front of me, letters from Ares 3 waiting to be read. But I’m tired, and I’m afraid of what they’ll say, and my burning face doesn’t feel like crying right now.  So instead I’m staring.

      Kim and Nicole are off in the corner doing some experiments or other on tables that are too high up for me to see.  Félix and Martinez, having first sworn they wouldn’t watch them, are currently out uploading my logs and the contents of the laptops to the MAV, and therefore the Hermes.  Sim is...where is he? I push myself up more to look, trying to ignore the screaming in my back and the sudden tightness in my chest. My eyes dart around frantically and I can’t breathe until I see him pop back up from behind one of the lab tables with a dish he’d dropped.  His eyes lock onto mine and he blinks in surprise and smiles before going back to whatever it was he was doing.

      I let out a shaky breath and sit back, trying to calm my stupid heart down before someone notices.  I don’t want to know what Beck would say if he knew I got anxiety attacks when I don’t know where people are.  Shit. What Liam would say, I mean. I swallow against the lump in my throat.

      I hastily paste a smile on my face as Liam looks up at me.  Crap, I forgot to take the panic out of my eyes, they’re too wide and my eyebrows are still drawn.  I can feel how weird this looks. Shit. He grabs his laptop and gets up, looking worried. Fuck, yeah he’s coming over.  Ok, ok, here’s what we’re gonna do, Watney, make a weirder face. Now, now! I raise my eyebrows as high as they can go and give him the biggest wide open smile I can muster.  He tilts his head with a confused frown as he sits down next to me.

      My heart is still racing.  Ok, now we need a verbal explanation for the weird faces you just pulled.

      “See, I feel fine!” I scratch out, my voice still too high, “so you can probably give me real food now!”

      We sit in silence for a beat, grin still stretched uncomfortably over my face.

      “Mark, sometimes I don’t understand your sense of humour,” he answers finally, still frowning but looking less worried.

      I let out a breath and allow my face to drop back into its standard ‘exhausted-but-still-technically-alive’ look.

      “What did NASA have to say?”  Too much bitter, Watney. They don’t even know about Pathfinder.  And you’re the one who’s not reading the emails now.

      Liam takes my temperature and looks at it, smiling tiredly.

      “Your fever’s getting better.  They’re hopeful that you’ll recover enough in the next few sols to start doing light exercise, stretches and that sort of thing.  We’re worried about muscle atrophy if you don’t move more.”

      I cringe at the thought.  “My back’s gonna love that.”

      He shifts awkwardly, looking uncomfortable.  He opens his mouth, closes it, and clears his throat.

      “Spit it out, man.”

      He smiles apologetically, clicking his laptop open.  “There is something I can give you for the pain, but first I need to know what kind of medicine you’ve taken from the Ares 3 supplies.”

      Ah, there it Is.  I know where this is heading.

      “A few antibiotics in the first week to make sure my puncture wound didn’t get infected.  After that mostly Vicodin and occasionally some anti-nausea medication. And vitamins, obviously.”

      He nods and types that in, re-reading it before looking back up.  “What about sleeping aids?”

      I shake my head, regretting it when a wave of nausea hits me.  I close my eyes against it, leaning further into the pillows. “I did try them once, but they made me sleep too deeply.  I got up really late the next morning and I was worried that something would go fatally wrong during the night and I wouldn’t be able to wake up for it.  So yeah, didn’t trust them. There were definitely days I could have used them though.”

      I hear him type that in and stop, everything quiet for a moment save for the hum of the oxygenator and the occasional clink of a test tube.

      “Of the Vicodin that was in the Hab,” he says eventually, keeping his voice low so no one else hears, “how much would you say you took?”

      Yeah, I thought so.  I drag my eyelids back open and turn my head to smile at him.

      “All of it.”

      He stares at me, unblinking.

      “There was a lot of digging,” I explain carefully, “like...seriously, a ridiculous amount of digging and lifting rocks.  And drilling holes into things. And carrying hazardous materials around. NASA leaves out how much manual labour this job requires when they pitch it to the kids,” I joke.  He doesn’t look amused. He looks concerned. Shit.

      “Look, I had stuff I had to get done in order to not die, and I couldn’t do all of it while I was in pain.  So yes, I took Vicodin when it started to affect my ability to work. I was careful about how often I took it, but I’ve probably built up some resistance to it, if that’s what you were thinking of giving me.”

      “Okay,” he says, typing something in.  “Did you ever take Vicodin when you weren’t in pain?”

      Yes.  “Nope.”

      He folds his hands together and doesn’t say anything.  What more do you want from me, man?

      I try to smile reassuringly but give up halfway through.  You’re my doctor, I shouldn’t have to put you at ease. I pinch my nose against the headache growing behind my eyes.

      “Liam, I did run out eventually, but that’s over four years,” I mutter irritably.  “I didn’t like...take them all at once or anything.”

      “Okay.”

      “I’m not an addict,” I throw in, for what it’s worth.

      “Okay,” he says again.  A flash of annoyance strikes me and I bite my tongue.  You weren’t there. You can’t judge me. The pain might not have always been physical, but it was there.  Constantly. It still is.

      “You’re sitting there with raised eyebrows, but it’s true,” I’m scowling now, but I can’t make myself stop.  “I was _careful_.  I didn’t take it unless I was in agony and when I ran out I didn’t have any withdrawal symptoms.  I’d tell you.”

      “You’re certain,” he asks, face blank.

      “I am certain,” I parrot back.

      “And that’s all you took?”

      “Yes.”

      He sighs, closing the laptop and leaning back.  He rubs his eyes tiredly and I feel bad for a second.  He should be bright eyed and full of energy right now. Should be having the time of his life analyzing Martian brainwaves or something, not taking care of a sick, irritable farmer.

      “When we pulled you out of the rover, we found some morphine on you.”

      Oh, fuck you.

      I take a long breath and exhale, digging my nails into my palms so my hands don’t shake.

      “I didn’t use any of it.  And I didn’t have that morphine so I could get _high_.”

      The airlock sounds, Félix and Martinez on their way back in.  But I’m too angry, staring furiously at the blanket, to look.

      “Hey, no one’s judging you,” Liam says quietly, “but I need to know why you had it.  Was it for the pain as well?”

      Say yes, Watney.  Martinez moves into my peripheral vision to say hi, but Liam asks him to come by a bit later.  My hands hurt and I try to unclench them, but can’t.

      “No,” I grind out.

      “Why then?”

      “Reasons.”

      “Mark,” he lays a hand on my shoulder and I stiffen, torn between wanting the contact and hating the context.  “What reasons.”

      I look at him, eyes burning.  He waits, quietly. I answer, less quietly.

      “You know what reasons,” my voice cracks and I stop, trying to let my breathing even out.  It doesn’t.

      “You know why,” I try again, louder.  The rest of me is shaking to match my voice.  “You damn well know why and I still didn’t go through with it, even after I gave up on you.  Even after years, and years of pain and solitude trying to make it here, and then _you didn’t show up_ ,” fuck, I’m crying now.  I grab his arm to move it off me but end up just sort of holding onto it.  “You didn’t show up. And you know what, I _still_ didn’t use it.  So you can go ahead and give me whatever the fuck you want because…”

      I feel the bed press down on my other side and I know it’s Martinez putting an arm around me now.  I swipe my eyes angrily. “Because if I didn’t let myself die _then_ , I sure as hell aren’t going to now.”

      Finished, I slump against Martinez and cross my arms, partly in defiance, partly because I’m still freezing.  He wraps his other arm around me in a hug and lays his chin on my head, uncharacteristically silent.

      Liam pats my shoulder once and leans back, hands out in a gesture of peace.  I scowl at the potatoes.

      “Mark,” he says, soothingly.  I huff and try to light them on fire with my mind.  “I’m proud of you.”

      That gets my attention.  My eyes snap to him and I take in his sincere expression.  “You are.”

      He nods emphatically.  “I am. You survived four years alone, facing incredible odds.  You had to fight to live every day. That kind of stress builds up quickly, and you didn’t have many ways to release it.  Even if you had used some of the drugs recreationally, I wouldn’t have blamed you in the slightest. Though as a doctor I’m glad you didn’t, it makes for better treatment options.”

      I sneak an arm out from the hug and grab Ollie to play with.  I focus on his fuzzy face and tiny bear nose, knowing if I look at Liam too long I’ll just start crying again.  My face is already too warm. I sniff. “Oh. Well. Good.”

      “For what it’s worth,” he continues, “I’m sorry we were late.  And...I’m glad you didn’t use it.”

      My throat tightens and I swallow.  My brain tries to convince my vocal chords to say ‘me too’, but ultimately fails.  I nod instead.

      We sit in silence for a few minutes and some of the tension leaves me, too tired and too comfortable to keep it up.  I sigh and look at him ruefully.

      “You know what the worst part was?”

      He shakes his head.

      “Commander Lewis brought nothing but old 70s TV.  And _Disco_.”

      Martinez barks out a laugh next to my ear and I jump reflexively, then reach up an arm to smack him.

      “Why is my pillow moving,” I whine.  He’s still giggling like a schoolgirl.

      “I forgot about the disco,” he gasps, “that was like all her music, she’s obsessed.”

      I try to twist my neck to look at him but it makes my head pound, so I settle for poking his arm.  “Oh, like you were any better, your stuff was all emo music! It was so sappy and BAD. I felt like such a tween!”

      “I met Marissa when I was a tween,” he cries indignantly, “and they’re not sappy, they’re romantic!”

      I laugh despite myself, happy for the banter.  “Shit, I forgot about that. I don’t know what she sees in you dude.  She is so, _so_ far out of your league.  She’s like..a whole planet out of your league.”

      He snorts and drops an arm, the other still draped around my shoulders.  “Man, I’m not disagreeing with you. I still can’t believe I got her either.”

      I close my eyes, exhausted.  “She must have been pleased when you agreed to come back,” I mumble.

      He squeezes me once before letting go so I can slouch back down into a lying position.  I blink sleepily up at him. His eyes are focused somewhere off in the distance.

      “She...well, she understood.  I mean, she didn’t _understand_ , but she understood.  I had to come back. It helps that the kids are old enough to think it’s cool.”

      “Mm.”  Eloquent, Watney.  Christ I’m tired.

      I flop my head to look at Liam.  “We good?”

      He smiles.  “We’re good.  With your permission I’ll start you on small doses of Morphine in a few days so you can do some stretches.  We can’t risk you getting dependent on it, so it’ll only be enough to dull the pain a bit, not get rid of it completely.  But I’m confident you can do it.”

      Easy for you to say.  I’m too tired to answer, so I make a noise in the back of my throat and let my eyes drift shut again.  My face is still burning, but the rest of me feels kind of light-headed and floaty again. I can hear Martinez mumble something to Liam and I want to listen, but the fog thickens and I let it consume me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I'll end a chapter without Watney passing out. ...but it is not this day.
> 
> I've read some really great Martian fanfics where Watney goes through withdrawal from taking Vicodin over too long a period of time. In this one though, due to how much more time he spends on Mars, he runs out before meeting up with Ares 4. Going through withdrawal without people to fawn/worry over him didn't seem like as much fun, so I decided not to.


	20. Missed Calls

Sol 1425

      I wake up halfway through the day with a headache and the distinct impression that someone was watching me. No one was.  Nicole tells me I was asleep for 12 hours. I feel like I could sleep for another 12, but sit up anyway to try to keep up appearances.  My back is slightly less stabby today. I wish I could go back to my pre-Mars sleep cycle and actually be awake for some of the sol. Not that there’s any real reason for me to be up, since I’m not allowed to do anything.

      It’s just her and Félix in the Hab right now, Liam feeling good enough about my health to go outside and do some work.  Sim, Martinez and Kim are busying themselves by tearing a seat out of one of their rovers so they can stick it in the MAV somehow.  Martinez was joking that they were going to use the one from my rover, since I’m probably attached or something, but that it smelled too bad, so they had to use the newer one.  Such a comedian.

      From my vantage point of the same-exact-fucking-place-I’ve-been-for-seven-sols I can see Félix carefully going through the soil samples I brought.  I had labeled them all with dates and approximate locations, and I see him with a map open on his laptop, marking the spots. He’s triple checking everything as he goes, frowning and mumbling to himself in French.

      Nicole is doing some sort of systems check, making sure everything is running smoothly.

      I’m doing nothing.  I’ve been sitting here doing nothing for an hour.  Before that I was playing solitaire on Sim’s laptop.  He offered to load up his NES emulator so I could play some old video games (it’s not a waste of time Mark!  It’s history!) but my hands and eyes are too tired to keep up with the pixels on the screen. I feel like an old man.

      My fingers tap out a slow rhythm on the closed laptop, trying to ignore the pit in my stomach.  C’mon, Watney. You don’t have anything better to do. And you’re well enough that you can’t pull the sick card.  I run my thumb along the latch, psyching myself up to open it. A coffee cup rattles and I sigh, looking idly in its direction.  I blink in surprise. Nicole takes a sip and put the mug back down. A ghost of a smile crosses my face. You know you’ve been on Mars too long when you’re surprised that you’re  _ not _ hallucinating.  I look back at the laptop, take a deep breath, and open it.  I click on the email from the crew before I can change my mind.

_             Dear Watney, _

      I slam the laptop shut, blinking furiously.   Seconds or hours tick by while I take in every detail of the bed on the opposite side of the hab.  There was a time I would have given anything to hear from them. Now I’m afraid to read their email.  I want someone to like...read it, and summarize it for me in bullet points, so I don’t have to see the emotion behind it.   _ You can’t ignore them forever _ .  I’m not ready.  If I concentrate maybe I can count how many threads there are in that blanket.  How much pathfinder wire would it take to make something like that?  _ Come on, Laika _ .  Ollie sits next to me, and I swear he’s giving me a look.  I give him one right back. Don’t judge me, dude. You’re not even a real bear.  He keeps looking. ...I’m sorry, that was mean.  _ Come on _ ...I sigh, open the laptop again.

_       Dear Watney, _

_       Holy s---! _

      I laugh despite myself, suddenly glad I talked myself into this.  I can’t believe Lewis let them write that, it sounds like something Martinez would say.

_       We mean that literally, Martinez told us you used his cross to make holy water?  Vogel thinks you’re a madman. He’s probably right. Mostly we’re just glad you didn’t blow yourself up too badly.  We’re just...really glad. There are no words for how glad we are. If you bought up every box of garbage bags in every Walmart in America, it still wouldn’t come close to how Glad we are.  ...yeah, sorry, that was pretty weak. We should probably leave the jokes to you dweebs. _

_       NASA says there wasn’t enough room for us to each send you a letter, because they wanted to send you important mission stuff or something.  Whatever. We’re gonna keep pestering them about it. Anyway, we each wrote you something here. This is Johanssen by the way! Hi Watney! AAAA!!!! _

_       I can’t believe this is really happening.  I’ve spent the last four years wishing we could go back in time and have a do-over.  Got a bit obsessed with time-travel video games. Watney...I was supposed to be watching for you.  And I messed it up. I know even if I’d been able to warn you, you probably wouldn’t have been able to dodge in time.  I know the comm. dish was going too fast for me to see. I’ve been telling myself that for four years, and it’s still as unconvincing today as it was on sol 6.  But you’re still alive, so I can tell you I’m sorry. And that helps, more than I can say. I just wish I could reach over to Mars and give you a hug. But I can’t.  So you better watch out when you get back, because I owe you a long one. Take care, Watney. Hurry home. _

_       Watney, this is Commander Lewis.  And as your commander I am ordering you to keep going, no matter what.  My mistake led to you being stranded on Mars. That’s on me. And it is not in my power to fix it.  Nothing can fix it. But you better hang in there soldier, so I can at least try. Sorry, NASA told us to keep this light.  Mark Watney. I have three new seasons of Star Trek, Two of Dirk Gentley’s Holistic Detective Agency and the entire collection of The Outer Limits waiting for you when you get back.  If you don’t come back I’m going to watch them all out of order. And I really don’t want to. So listen to your doctor. Get better, and better, and come home. _

_       Doctor Watney, you are a madman.  I have known this since the time I saw you drink two energy drinks and the espresso in one sitting.  Before I thought your madness would kill you. Now it saved your life. Never stop being mad, Doctor Watney.  Me, Helena and the kids are all waiting for you to get back to Earth. We will have a big barbecue. We can even get some of your watered-down American beer.  I am sorry you had to burn the Hydrazine. That was very very dangerous. I am sorry you did not have your music because we were going over my chemistry experiments.   I am sorrier that you needed to do them for me. But I am also so very proud. You have done very well to take care of yourself for so long. Now it is time to let us take care of you. _

_       Hey Watney, this is Beck.  You probably don’t know this, but I was the one who told Lewis you weren’t coming and we had to take off.  I feel responsible. We all do. Beth didn’t warn you in time. I told Lewis to leave. Lewis gave the order.  Martinez executed it. Vogel’s probably the only one who doesn’t feel guilty about it, and I doubt even he sleeps soundly at night, knowing it could have been any of us to be hit.  Anyway, all this to say, we’re never letting you out of our sight again. Beth and I...we want you to move in with us, when you get back. If you want to. Don’t feel pressured into it, but we’ve talked about it a lot and we want to be there for you as much as we can.  We’re not doing this out of guilt or anything either, we just really miss you. Take your time to think about it. _

_       Keep your head up, Watney.  It can only get better. _

_       Love, _

_       Your crew. _

      I let out a long breath, closing the laptop with a soft click.  Lot of guilt going around, lately. Can’t wait for that to stop being a thing.   _ If you’d stayed dead they wouldn’t feel so bad. _  ...don’t you have anything better to do, brain?

      Vogel can sometimes come across as distant and aloof.  But in reality he’s just a big marshmallow. If I were back on Earth right now, he’d probably even treat me the same.  Just a normal human person. I’m actually looking forward to that barbecue. We can all get together, relax...maybe watch some bad tv.

      And Beck and Johanssen are together.  I don’t mean to brag, but I totally called that, before we even left.  Their kids are going to be adorable. I don’t...I don’t know how I feel about living with them.  I can’t think about it now. I don’t even know when NASA would release me. And I’m such a mess. It’s easy to say ‘yeah, we want our friend to stay here’.  But they don’t know me, not anymore. I’m not the same Mark Watney. I can’t joke all the time. I talk to myself. I have nightmares. I’m probably going to have all kinds of dietary and health restrictions.  I don’t want to drop that on them. I don’t want them to find out I’m not okay.

      I trace the logo on the laptop idly, feeling connected to the rest of the crew despite the distance between us.  The letter was short, but it made me feel optimistic about the future. Just a little. I can feel their warmth through the screen.  I mean, that and the laptop’s heating up because it’s been on for so long. They’ve all gone on with their lives. But they never forgot about me.  I was the ghost that haunted them, and their collective guilt made me become solid, a physical reminder of all their mistakes.

      ...stop it, Watney.

      I shove the laptop to the side, gazing at the rest of the hab morosely.  Happy feelings never seem to last anymore. I hate it. I hate ‘misery’ being my default emotion.

      Félix seems to have finished entering data and is now staring intently at the map, one hand over his mouth and the other restlessly drumming on his knee.  Nicole finishes what she’s doing with a last few clicks of the mouse.

      “Whoo!” she grins, clicking a button and flinging her hands in the air dramatically.  “All systems are perfect.”

      “Bravo,” Félix replies absently, not looking away from the screen.

      “Thank you,” she stands and bows at him.  He fails to notice so she shrugs and bows at me instead.

      “Great work,” I nod.  “I’m not used to being in a hab this quiet, you must be doing something right.”

      “Yeah?” She walks over and sits in Liam’s chair next to my bed.  “How’d you mean?”

      I point at my suit helmet in the corner, the oxygenator alarm conspicuously missing from it.  “I misused pretty much everything they sent with us. I had to trick more than one system to get the hab to do what I wanted so I could grow my food.  You kind of get used to the alarms. If you let me too close to your control panels I might break some stuff just out of reflex.”

      She winces, eying her workstation.  “Just as well you can’t get up then.”

      I shiver, looking longingly at the controls.  I know a thing I’d like to break. “It might be the fever talking, but I kinda miss my 30℃ hab.  It was so nice and warm. Not like your icebox.”

      She stares at me in horror, eyes comically wide and hands on her cheeks in a fair imitation of ‘The Scream’.  “Oh God, your poor electronics, they must have been overheating.”

      “There’s supposed to be condensation on everything, right?”

      “Nooo, stop I don’t want to know!  How your laptops even survived is beyond me,” she shakes her head at me like a disappointed school teacher.

      Honestly, I don’t know how the laptops managed to keep going either.  There was one sol I had them all running for something like 10 hours. They were all lined up on my lab table with fullscreen pictures of the sky on them.  I was pretending I had a window. There was so much dirt in the hab I’m amazed it didn’t get into the keyboards.

      “...yeah.  Really, there’s a lot of stuff that should have broken, but didn’t.  I guess I got lucky.” My hands drift over Sim’s laptop, carefully pulling it away from the edge of the bed.  So many things could have gone worse than they did. And I should feel thankful for it. But I can’t.

      “Mark,” Nicole reaches over to grab Ollie and places him on my head like a fuzzy hat.  “There was nothing lucky about your situation. You made your own survival possible. You should be proud.”

      “Hm.”

      My eyes drift down to rest on a shadow cast by my left knee, and the folds of the blanket.  I could probably look away if I wanted to. It’s comfortable though, so I don’t. We sit in silence; Nicole lost in thought, me lost in static.  She starts humming a song I don’t know and It’s hard not to just close my eyes and fall asleep. I literally just woke up three hours ago though, and I still have a headache from oversleeping.  I drag my eyelids back open, not even remembering closing them.

      Movement to my left makes me turn my head slowly to look.  Félix is packing up the soil samples, meticulously ordering them by date and placing them back in the sample box.  His hands hover over it for a moment, before he plucks two of them back up, closes the box, and stands. For a while he just stands there, examining the labels with his eyebrows drawn.  Eventually he glances at the map still open on his laptop, then turns towards me and appears next to the bed. I blink. Might have missed something there. I tilt my head up to look at him.  Ollie falls off it and into my lap.

      “I, euh…” he trails off, staring at nothing.  Oi, that’s my schtick.

      Nicole pulls his sleeve.  “Mars to Ayotte, what’s up farm boy?”

      He visibly shakes himself.  “Sorry, euh..” he looks at me.  “I think you may have mislabeled some of these,” he says, holding up the soil samples.

      I lift an arm to take them, the novelty of having enough energy to move still hasn’t worn off.  What have we got here? Ares Vallis, 10.4N and 25.8 W, sol 82...and Mawrth Vallis, 22.4°N, 343.5°E, sol 1379.  Big gap in the dates there. What about them? I hand them back. “They look fine to me.”

      He sits on the edge of the bed, fiddling with one of the caps, before catching himself and stopping.  “It’s just that you have a lot of samples heading up towards Ares Vallis, but there’s nothing up there.  I thought you stayed in Acidalia Planitia until you came here?”

      Ohhh, right.  I didn’t tell you guys about that, did I.

      Heat creeps down my neck.  Do I even want you to know?  Pathfinder was one of the worst things that happened to me here.  But if you can’t believe my soil samples are accurate, you might doubt the rest of what I did.

      ...shit.  Okay. No big deal.

      “Right, uh…,” I look around, and grab Sim’s laptop, placing it next to me on Félix’s side of the bed.  “This is the Ares 3 site at Acidalia Planitia. And down here…,” I grab Ollie and put him as close to him as I can without straining my back, “is Ares Vallis.  There’s not much there now, but what I did was,” I lay my hand flat, in an imitation of the rover, “I drove over,” I move it towards him, making car noises like a kid, “picked apart Pathfinder,” I nudge Ollie so he falls over, “and brought some bits of it back,” I slide my hand under the bear so I can lift him while maintaining my rover shape, “to the hab,” I finish, making car noises again as I ‘drive’ back and dump Ollie on the laptop.

      No.  Big. Deal.  Right?

      His jaw drops a little and his hand falls to the bed.  “You what?”

      Nicole is staring at me too.  “You brought back Pathfinder?”

      I shrug and flop an arm towards Soji.  “Where do you think I got Sojourner from?”

      Félix turns his head towards it, face a comical mix of surprise and confusion.  “It’s a rover,” he mumbles to himself. “I thought it...roved.”

      I snort, trying and failing not to laugh.  That was a sentence worthy of me. Must be a botanist thing.

      “Why did you go get them?” Nicole asks, patting Ollie on the head.

      My smile drops.  “Doesn’t matter. It didn’t work.  But it was a good test of my rover modifications anyway.  Plus it was nice to get out of the hab, remember what distance vision looks like.”

      Nicole frowns at me, trying to puzzle it out.  I stare at the blankets, studiously avoiding eye contact.  “But you...OH! Oh  _ no _ .” Her hands fly to her mouth and her eyes widen.

      Ah, hell.  She’s figured it out.

      “What?” Félix is still lost, looking between us, trying to see the answer suspended in the air.  “What happened?”

      They’re not answering.  They’re not going to answer.  This is hopeless.

      “He fixed Pathfinder,” Nicole whispers.  She’s blurry in my peripheral vision, my heart beating in my ears.  “He fixed Pathfinder so he could talk to Earth. And we didn’t answer.  Oh god, the blip. The Pathfinder blip, SETI thought it was a system error.  We didn’t even look.”

      Mars is laughing at me again and it’s right to.  I should have seen this coming.

      “What?!” Félix sits straighter, alarmed.  He says something else but I can’t really hear him properly.

      I could be the last human in the universe.  This could all be for nothing.

      Someone is hugging me.  I don’t know who. I can’t see right.

      I’m going to shovel dirt and live in the dirt and be dirt.

      My arms hurt from work I did a thousand sols ago.

      Fuck you, Mars.

      Fuck.  You.

      “I’m so sorry, Mark.”

      I sit still, trying to forget.  Minutes pass. A shirtsleeve gradually fades back into view.

      “Maudit crisse de tabarnak,” is whispered above my head.  The shirtsleeve belongs to Félix.

      “It wouldn’t have changed anything,” I lie.

      He squeezes me tighter.  “It would have changed everything.”

      My throat closes up and I shudder, blinking back tears.  “Yeah.”

      There are weeks I don’t remember, and there are sols that will never go away.  That first day, when I set up Pathfinder outside the hab. I was so happy. I was so sure.  There was no doubt in my little astronaut head. I thought I should think up something clever to say to the folks back home.  They were going to answer. And then the sol was over. And then ten more. And I gave up on ever seeing people again. I gave up and I haven’t let myself hope since.  Just do what you gotta do to make it to the next problem.

      Félix lets go and draws back a bit, giving me space that is immediately taken over by Nicole.  I could get used to this.

      “I’m furious,” she mutters.  “You shouldn’t have had to…”

      “It’s over.”  I’m tired. I don’t want to...I can’t think about it anymore.

      She releases me and sits back in her chair.  I’m cold again.

      “It might help to talk about it,” Félix says hesitantly, still awkwardly perched on the edge of the bed.

      The coffee cups rattle in the background.  “I’m good.”

      Félix and Nicole share a loaded look.  There’s a conversation there that I’m not part of.  Nicole lays a hand on my shoulder.

      “Are you s-”

      “So what about the other soil sample?” I interrupt.  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. You can’t.

      Félix shifts, uncertain, running a thumb over the label.

      “Come on, I could die of old age any second now.”

      He looks up, alarmed.  “You’re not going to die, Mark!”

      Jeez.  “It was a joke, man.”

      “Oh.  Euh, sorry.  It’s not important, I’m sure it’s just a small error, just...this sample is from Mawrth Vallis.”

      Nicole finally takes her hand off my shoulder.  I grab Ollie to replace her. “Yeah, I drove through Mawrth Vallis to get here.  Seemed like the best route.”

      He nods.  “Ouais, but from the coordinates you would have had to take the sample from about four meters into the side of the valley.”

      Sure as heck did.  Ask my guitar. “The coordinates are correct.”

      He frowns in confusion.  “You got a sample stick four meters into solid packed soil?”

      Man, I wish that’s how I got the sample.  “Nah, I got a shovel through four meters of solid packed soil.  Made a nice big tunnel-cave.”

      He raises impressed eyebrows.  “You dug a tunnel with a mini-shovel?”

      “That’s nothing,” I scoff.  “You should’ve seen my backyard as a kid.  I think the only reason my parents got me into gardening was so I’d stop digging for dinosaur bones.”

      He stares at the soil sample with new eyes.  “You dug a tunnel with a mini-shovel.”

      “Why in the heck did you do that?” Nicole exclaims, hand on her forehead.

      Oh, I practiced this one.  “I wanted to be Batman.”

      She sighs and lets her head sink into her hands.  “You wanted to be Batman.”

      “Yep.”

      “That’s it?  Because that’s concerning.”

      “That’s it.  Batman. I mean, the fact that hiding in my batcave for five sols saved me from deadly radiation from a solar flare was purely incidental.”  Five fucking sols in the dark, after living in 24hr daylight all that time. I’m gonna need a nightlight from here to the end of eternity.

      “You never catch a break, do you,” she sympathizes.

      “I dunno.  I got here in one piece when all the odds were against me.  Seems like a pretty big break there.” More or less one piece.  Maybe several medium sized pieces. And a few crumbs that sort of broke off the side.

      Félix lets out a long, slow whistle.  “You are badass, Mark Watney.”

      I let the corner of my mouth twitch up, too tired to do the whole face.  “Is that what the kids back on Earth are saying?”

      He shakes his head.  “I have no idea, we don’t have internet out here.  It’s what I’m saying.”

      Sweet.

* * *

 

      Hours later, when everyone’s back in the hab, I get to sit through a nice big discussion about the horrible thing Watney let slip this time.  I would have just zoned out, but that would have drawn even more attention, and I should probably stop trying to do that on purpose anyway. So I spent about forty minutes deflecting questions about my feelings (you know we’re here for you, right?), my methods (are you seriously telling me there’s an RTG in your rover right now), and my plans for the future.  Liam wants me to start therapy. I told him no way. I’m not going to talk about anything significant in this big open space with nowhere I can hide and compose myself. And with 40 minutes between messages, I’d probably either zone out or fall asleep anyway. He said we’d talk about it later. I’m calling that a win.

      Then there was the end of day mission talk about everyone’s progress; how the MAV modifications are going (okay), how the science is going (fine), and what NASA wants them to focus on next (same thing they said last time).  After that was dinner, a health checkup for me (fever’s up a bit) and everyone collectively called it a night. Sim’s made himself a sort-of-mattress thing on the floor with folded up hab canvas since we’re a bed short, and he seemed genuinely excited to sleep on it.  Apparently it makes this feel more like a sleepover. If we’re not careful we’re gonna descend into pillow fights, and all will be lost.

      I thought I’d done a good job concealing my panic when they went to turn the lights off, until Nicole passed by my bed and quietly slipped me some glow sticks.  I didn’t ask why she had them. I’d have brought some too, if I’d thought to.

      Now I’m lying here in the dark hab, listening to borrowed music (from this century) while I wait for them to fall asleep.  I don’t know what my subconscious is going to throw at me tonight, but I bet it’s going to feature a big broken lander and a big empty planet.  So I wait, and hope they’ll sleep through any noise I might make. If I have a nightmare I don’t want them to know about it.

      I hit a particularly good song and set it to repeat.  Maybe I’ll just stay up all night.


	21. I'll sleep when I'm dead

Johnson Space Center 

Teddy Sanders

      Teddy Sanders had what many considered to be the coolest job in the world.  Director of NASA. He didn’t just send the rockets up; he decided which missions went ahead and which didn’t, what experiments took precedence over others, and where the (increasingly limited) funding went.  His decisions led to new discoveries every day that had real world applications, and scientific breakthroughs that would be talked about in universities across the world for decades to come. He’d never thought twice about his path in life.  But now, as he downed his third cup of coffee of the day and prepared for his 8th press conference that week, he began seriously regretting not going into medicine like his parents wanted.

      For the hundredth time, he clicked over the satellite data of Ares 3 that Kapoor had requested all those years ago.  There was no indication anyone was alive inside the sandy lump they knew to be the Hab. But then there was not much indication of anything at all.  Maybe there was more dust over the Hab than they’d expected. If he squinted, it looked like there was a slight dent in the ground where some of the sand might have been removed.  But then again, maybe it was the lighting.

      Reporters, scientists, and the general public (many of whom didn’t even believe in climate change, let alone understand space travel) all wanted to know how NASA could have missed this.  But as he pored over the data yet again and tried to remember if he’d taken his blood pressure medication that morning, he thought to himself _how could we have known?_

      There was a brief knock before the door to his office creaked open.  Sanders looked up from his computer as Venkat Kapoor slipped in and closed the door behind him.  He strode over and dropped into a chair without so much as a hello.

      “Morning,” Sanders acknowledged.  “Are you here to say ‘I told you so’?”

      “No.”

      “Maybe you’re here to tell me that if I’d listened to you Mark Watney could have been rescued years ago, sparing him crippling ptsd and months of physical therapy to regain muscle and bone mass.”

      Kapoor raised his eyebrows and peered at him over his glasses.  “Do I have to?”

      He leaned back, folding his hands together.  “No.”

      “Good,” he straightened.  “I’m actually here about Pathfinder.  I assume you’ve been briefed that Watney tried to use it to contact Earth?  And that we completely ignored it?”

      Sanders sighed, eyes drifting to his computer, where he had about seventeen different tabs of internal emails open.  “For crying out loud, the CEO of SETI didn’t think anything of it either, and their entire job is to look for alien life.  Why are we getting all the blame for this again?”

      “Are you serious,” Kapoor asked incredulously, “he’s your astronaut.  He’s your responsibility. The public feels, rightly so I might add, that when a crew loses a member, instead of just going on with your life, you should _take the time to make sure he’s actually dead._ ”

      “His suit decompressed,” Sanders threw his hands up in the air, “his life signs were flat!  There was a sandstorm strong enough to tip the MAV and he had zero visibility with which to make it back to the Hab.  Even if we could have somehow predicted that a series of bizarre and unlikely circumstances let him survive the storm, there is _absolutely_ no way he should have been able to live long enough for us to help him.  When I denied your satellite time, I had the impossibility of his survival in mind weighed against the entire future of space travel.  How the hell were we supposed to know?!”

      Venkat held up his hands in a ‘calm down’ motion.  “I’m just telling you, that’s how the public sees it.  They don’t like the thought of an American citizen being left alone on a foreign planet for four years and having absolutely nobody know about it.”

      “Oh, and I do?”  Sanders rubbed his eyes tiredly, quiet for a moment before he lowered his hands, slipping his professional demeanor back into place.  “What about Pathfinder?”

      “I sent you the latest satellite photos of both Acidalia Planitia and Ares Vallis,” he gestured to the computer.

      Sanders vaguely remembered something about that.  He squinted at the array of tabs he had open, guessing wrong a few times before finding it.  “Okay, yeah I got it.”

      “Do you see anything odd in them?”

      “Are we really gonna start playing guessing games?” he grumbled, but looked nonetheless.  He frowned. “It’s not here.”

      “That’s it.  Even in pieces, we don’t think it would fit through an airlock, and it’s big enough that even covered in sand we should still be able to see some sort of shape, but all we can vaguely make out is the Hab and the landing struts.  So where did it go?”

      Sanders scowled at the screen.  He had less than 30 minutes before his press conference and entirely too little caffeine in his system for this.  “Does it matter? It’s broken.”

      “SETI thinks Watney fixed it,” Kapoor explained.  “The rover is broken, Ares 4 confirmed that for us, but if SETI got a blip from the lander, they think it might still be able to take pictures.  If it’s back at the Ares 3 site, it could give us closer pictures than we could get from satellites. It’d be good to see what evidence of his work Watney left behind.  Only we want to make sure it’s actually there before we dig the old team out of retirement.”

      He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by Annie Montrose storming through the door.

      “By all means, come in,” he said dryly.

      “27 minutes,” she glanced up from her phone, “your hair’s not combed, and I told you to wear the orange tie, it’s mission colours.  Did you even read my notes?”

      “I’ll ask the crew to find out about Pathfinder,” he nods to Kapoor.  “Watney hasn’t answered my email, not that I entirely blame him.”

      “Thank you,” he stands stiffly, looking carefully at Montrose.  After waiting a beat to make sure she wasn’t going to throw another surprise talk show interview at him, he fled.

      Sanders watched him go enviously.

      “Did you get my photo,” she put her phone away, getting to business.

      “No I did not,” he stood as well, hoping she’d take the hint and leave.  She flopped down in the chair Kapoor had just vacated and stared him down.  He wished, not for the first time, that she took her job just a little less seriously.  “The med department and William Graeves both assure me you don’t want a photo right now.  Also do you know how much data sending photos takes up? They wouldn’t be able to send us anything else.  We have bigger priorities right now.”

      “Bigger than PR?” she scoffed.  “I’m the only thing keeping you alive right now.  Speaking of, you’ll probably have to resign when Watney gets back to Earth, but we don’t want it to look like you’re leaving in disgrace, so if they ask you about it just decline to comment.”

      “I have to resign because an astronaut _didn’t_ die?” he smoothed down his jacket, trying to mask his irritation.

      “You have to resign because we didn’t know about it,” she leaned back, looking unimpressed.  “Because of a decision you made. A decision which the head of the Mars program fought against.  You did it for the funding. Fine. Whatever. If you want the government to continue investing in us, you cannot be in charge.  You can’t resign now, leaving someone else to clean up your mess. We want it to look more like you’re doing it because you’re old and tired.”

      “I’m not old,” he protested.

      She scrutinized his hair, which he’d carefully dyed earlier that week to hide the greys, but didn’t say anything about it.  “Anyway, you’re going to have to resign when Watney gets back. So all you have to remember is to decline. To comment.”

      “Alright, fine,” he resisted the urge to check his hair in the reflection of his monitor.

      “By the way, the Watneys are coming to this morning’s press conference.”

      “They what?” his heart skipped as he thought anxiously of the terrifying look on Mrs. Watney’s face when he broke the news that they’d somehow missed her son’s survival.  “Why. Please.”

      “Don’t be a chicken,” she smirked.  “And the press is why. Mark Watney is unreachable for comment at the moment, which makes his parents the next closest thing.  Do you have any _idea_ how many requests for interviews they’ve gotten?  Trust me, you ought to be ecstatic I convinced them to do ours instead.”

      “Oh, I’m over the moon,” he deadpanned.

      Montrose stood, pulling her phone back out.  “Lose the sarcasm, don’t antagonize the parents, change the tie,” she headed towards the door.

      Sander’s secretary poked his head in as she exited.  “Sorry sir, but I’ve got legal on line 3 for you.  They say it can’t wait.” He hovered anxiously near the door.

      “Something else?”

      His secretary nodded, cringing.  “Melissa Lewis would like to schedule a meeting,” he fled.

      Sanders sat down heavily and dreamed of sunny beaches and palm trees.

      “Twenty minutes!” Montrose’s voice called from halfway down the hall.

 

Sol 1426 

      My head is buzzing with static by the time morning comes.  My eyes are burning from not blinking enough, and the world spins if I move my head too fast.  Staying up was definitely a mistake. I’m going to get a lecture if anyone finds out. It was worth it, I think to myself, as I watch over the sleeping crew like an overprotective parent.  I’m just sitting here, watching them breathe. Making sure they’re alright.

      No one is awake.  Which means no one is watching me.  I can finally let myself think.

      I screw my eyes shut, not letting myself focus on the past just yet.  It hurts too much, and it scares me, and I’m not ready to deal with it now.  I might never be. So I breathe deeply, lean my head back, and let myself think about the future.

      ...what the hell is it about being awake in the middle of the night that makes my worries shoot to the surface like an unrestrained pool noodle?

      I don’t know if I can do this.  I don’t know if I can keep stringing myself along under the promise that I’ll start feeling better soon.  I don’t know if I can get used to people again. I can barely tolerate talking to two people at a time. How the hell am I going to be able to deal with the press?  How can I face the crew, and my parents, knowing how much pain I caused them?

      I did everything right.  Okay, I did most things right.  I struggled, I lived, I made it to safety.  So why doesn’t this feel like rescue?

      Every morning I wake up, put on a smiley-face mask, do absolutely nothing all day, and go to sleep.  I’m finally reunited with humanity but I spend so much energy hiding my feelings that I’m basically still alone.  And I know what you’re thinking. Just tell them how you feel, right? Stop spending so much energy hiding behind the happy-go-lucky persona of who you used to be.  Just be honest with yourself and with everyone. It’ll hurt, but they’ll be able to help you, and eventually you’ll start to recover.

      Fuck, I’d love to do that.  And I’ve tried. But just as I start getting comfortable around them, just as I relax enough that I think I can show just a little weakness (hey, could we leave the lights on a little?  the dark makes me anxious), I panic, and I say nothing.

      What the hell are you afraid of, Watney?

      The problem is this: I want them to like me.  I badly, desperately, _need_ them to like me.  I need their company to survive even more than I need the calories in Liam’s stupid health drink things.  I need their banter. I need their attention. I need to be able to reach out and touch them and know that they’re real.

      If I open up and tell them how screwed up I am, suddenly I’m a thing to fix.  I become a burden that’s not fun to be around, and they stop liking me. To be in the same room as them, the only bubble of life this side of the solar system, and have them hate being with me, would kill me.

      I can feel my depression, anxiety and my staring-into-space-thing get worse the longer I pretend they aren’t there, but I can’t risk letting it show.  Because maybe it would go fine. But maybe it wouldn’t, and they stop wanting to talk to me, and then I might as well have just died on sol 6.

      I flop an arm over my eyes, tearing up in frustration.  I feel like I’m never going to be okay. Everything hurts.  And it’s only going to get worse. There’s a reason Mars missions were only supposed to last a month.  Back when we were still doing missions orbiting Earth, it was discovered that spending too long in 0g resulted in significantly lowered muscle and bone density.  I’ve been in partial gravity for so long that I’ll probably snap a bone just by shifting my weight.

      All I’ve cared about this whole time was getting back.  But what’s waiting for me on Earth? Weekly trips to the hospital, probably.  Endless scientific studies, medical research, and interviews, definitely. I don’t even know what kind of job I’ll be able to hold down.  I mean sure, it’s probably not something I need to worry about for a while, but I can’t just sit around forever. I’ll go mad.

      I throw one of the blankets off and force myself to sit up.  Everyone continues to breathe.

      I wish I could get up and run tests.  Do a canvas check. Run a complete sweep of the system.  Maybe get out and dust off the solar panels. I know I can’t.  My knees are still all messed up and I would just fall over and wake everyone up.  I know it’s fine, too. Nicole did a system check. Sim’s keeping an eye on the solar panels.  Martinez is watching the MAV. But I’m so used to it being just me. I’m the only one who can fix things because I’m the only one here.  I haven’t so much as checked the CO2 levels since I got here and it’s making me antsy.

      I run a skeletal hand over my face.  I can’t keep this up. However hard I try to play the ‘fine’ card, eventually I’m going to crack.  You can’t go around hallucinating and talking to yourself and zoning out for hours on end without a few people noticing.  Particularly if you live in a tent. With six other people. At least a few of whom are paid to notice you. If I keep trying to hide everything from everyone I’m going to shred myself to pieces.  I have to talk to someone.

      I can’t tell Martinez.  He’s been through enough because of me.  Plus he’d tell our crew, and they’d worry.  And that would make me worry about their worrying; like maybe they’re not living their fullest lives because of me and I’m stressing them out and it would just be easier on everyone if I were dead.  I can’t go through that. I had the strength not to kill myself on sol 1415. I don’t know if I have the strength to stop myself again, whatever I told Liam.

      I stare vacantly in the direction of Liam’s bunk.  My eyes are burning from tiredness. He’d have to tell NASA.  But they would, I think, have the sense not to tell the crew. He rolls over in his sleep.  I don’t want to burden him either. But damnit, he’s a doctor (not a...I dunno. Toaster). I’m still rational enough to know I need one.  Ares 4, Liam included, had to run through hundreds of simulations, what-if scenarios and crisis rehearsals before stepping foot in the shuttle that launched them to the Hermes.  I bet none of them predicted he’d have to play psychologist to a Martian.

      A light breeze outside sends a few grains of sand pinging against the Hab and sends a jolt of fear through my chest.  It would be really cool if every little thing didn’t set me off anymore. I fiddle with my remaining blanket while I wait for my pulse to slow back down.  ...yeah, okay. If I can get Liam alone, I’ll talk to him. I don’t want to crumble into myself. That would make the crew feel bad.

      I yawn widely and try to ignore the headache I can feel creeping up on me.  It feels nice to have finally made a decision about something, even if it’s something as simple as ‘stop lying to your doctor’.

      In this lighting, the Hab ceiling is a smooth, unbroken slab of grey.  I wish we had a skylight. Not windows; I’m happy trying to forget that I’m still here, on fucking Mars.  But I wish I could see stars. For all I know, there could be anything out there.

      I settle for drawing constellations with my mind.  The big dipper looked something like this. Here’s Orion.  This one is Ursa Minor. That’s not part of a constellation, that’s Jupiter.  I relax into the exercise, mentally drawing dots in the air, and wait for the crew to wake up.

* * *

 

      I’ve gone through all the constellations I know and started making some up by the time Kim rises groggily and stumbles up to make coffee.  She doesn’t notice me as she stiffly goes through the ritual of boiling some water, pouring it into her mug with a spoonful of instant, and stirring.

      “Ah, shit,” she swears quietly when she goes to sip her too-hot coffee.  She sets it down on a table and squints at it impatiently.

      “Minus seventy-two degrees Celsius outside and I’m waiting for coffee to cool,” she mutters.

      Rather than sit around, she goes to make sure that the oxygenator, atmospheric regulator, and water reclaimer are still working, and checks for new messages from NASA.  That done, she ties her hair up and looks over the crew, smiling softly. Her gaze lands on me and she grins. She grabs her coffee, swears again and holds it by the handle this time, and makes her way over.

      “Morning Mark,” she whispers, slinking sideways into a chair and propping an ankle up on her knee.

      “Sure is,” I reply.  “Not a morning person then?”  She yawns widely.

      “Oof.”  She tries to sip her coffee again but it’s still too hot.  “Don’t tell NASA. I still have them fooled.”

      “Your secret’s safe with me.”  

      I never thought I’d see the day when crummy instant coffee could smell that good.  I may have whined about this a few times, but I haven’t had coffee since sol two hundred something-forever ago.  And now, even though there’s coffee _right there_ within even my limited reach, I can’t have any.  Because Liam’s a big party pooper who doesn’t think my heart deserves caffeine right now.

      If I don’t say something I’m just going to end up creepily staring at her like a dog trying to get table scraps.  At least blink, Watney. Okay, c’mon. Make with the talking.

      I grab Ollie and wave a paw at her.  “Morning,” I say, in my best squeaky voice.

      Is that really the best you can do?

      She laughs, nearly spilling her drink in the process.  “Oh man, Kevin’s gonna be over the moon when he finds out you like his bear.  You’re his favourite astronaut, you know.”

      My breath catches and my heart does a fluttery-thing.

      “I’m what now?”

      She takes a swig of coffee and gestures at me with her other arm.  “Yeah! You’re his favourite astronaut! He thinks you’re the coolest.  Even before you left for Mars and proceeded to advance space science by a few decades all by your onesie self.”

      I stare at her, speechless, and try to ignore the prickling in the back of my eyes.  

      Eventually my voice returns.  “Wow. Why?”

      She shrugs.  “You know, I’m not sure.  I think it’s because of some combination of your sense of humour and the fact that your name sounds like it’s from a comic book.”

      “Huh.  Does it?”

      She nods, then shakes her head and shrugs again.  “Well, he thinks so anyway. You know he’s been obsessed with Aquaman ever since you mentioned it on Ares Live?  Five years, Mark.  Five years of nautical themed birthday parties.”

      Holy shit I remember that.  NASA shrinks trying to get into our heads after we spent some time in isolation.  It was something like 10 days, and then the ‘what did you think about’ questions came.  Jeez. 10 days. They thought that was a good approximation of what prolonged isolation would be like.  10...fucking…

      I gave that guy such a hard time about it.  I thought the whole thing was dumb. You can’t predict how someone will react to prolonged isolation under controlled conditions like that.  That kind of stress can’t be manufactured. It’s not the same if you know ‘Oh, I’m here for 10 days, let’s catch up on sleep’.

      The irony that I ended up being part of a much larger study on isolation and now definitely need a shrink is not lost on me.  They better assign me a different person. That guy was an ass.

      I mentally shake myself and focus on the fact that I fueled a kid’s obsession with comics.  I take pride in helping drive his parents crazy.

      “Oops?”  I’m not even sorry.

      Kim sinks into her chair, holding her mug to her face like it’s the holy grail.  “Eh, it’s good for him to have hobbies.”

      A comfortable silence falls between us.  My eyes drift around the Hab. It’s the same size as ours was, but it looks way bigger without the dirt.  Bigger and more crowded. More lively. There’s an undercurrent of downright giddiness in the air, despite the risks, the distance from Earth, and NASA’s constant micromanagement of every single part of the day.

      “Mark?”

      I look back at Kim, who’s finally starting to look somewhat awake.  “Yeah?”

      She takes a deep breath and exhales.  Her eyes lock onto mine, a serious expression on her face.

      “...it’s Aquaman.  Not Fishman. He controls all marine life, not just the fish.”

      It takes a minute for her words to filter past the layer of exhausted static in my head.  Not Fishman. Fair enough, I guess.

      “...oh.  Alright then.”

      She grins.  “What superpower would you want?  If you got to decide.”

      Uhhhh…shoot.  I used to have an answer to that.

      “I don’t know.  I’ve never really thought about it.”

      She hmms and tries to sip her coffee, but it’s empty somehow.  Neither of us remembers her finishing it. She squints at it suspiciously, then looks back up.

      “I’d go with prediction,” she declares.  “I could use it for like...winning things, obviously, but also figuring out what Christmas presents to buy, or the right thing to say to a troubled friend.  And I’d finally be able to beat Liam at chess.”

      “Good choice,” I’m still thinking about it.  Back in university, I used to think super intelligence was pretty cool.  You could get a degree in like a week, learn a lot of really neat stuff, and improve the world a whole bunch.  And I wouldn’t have had to study so hard. But intelligence can’t always save you. Super intelligence wouldn’t have stopped me getting impaled by a communications dish.

      “I’d want shapeshifting,” I say.  Weird. I feel like I already knew that.  Why did it take me so long to answer?

      She spins her chair side to side.  “Shapeshifting, huh. Why?”

      “Because animals are rad.  If you’re hungry but don’t have a sandwich you could just turn into something that eats whatever you do have.”  Always about the survival.

      If I could shapeshift, I could’ve turned into a rocket and gotten home even before the Hermes.

      “That and I’d never have to get a haircut again.  I could just like...shapeshift it shorter. Or longer.  Or blue.”

      She grins at something behind me.  “Nicole would love that, I’m sure.”

      Hm.  Now that I think about it, shouldn’t her roots be showing?  “How does she maintain her hair? There’s no way NASA let her bring hair dye.”

      “It’s a w-”

      “WEIRD family genome that makes all of our hair pink,” I jump nearly out of my skin at the voice on the other side of my bed.  Jeez, my spacial awareness is _crap_.  How long had she been standing there?

      “Good morning, by the way,” she smiles at me.  “Have you been up long?”

      “Nah, not long,” I lie.  Hey, I said I’d be honest with the doctor.  I didn’t say anything about anyone else.

      “Cool,” she plops down on the ground in front of Kim and leans back against her legs.

      “Oi,” Kim protests lightly, not seeming to actually care.

      “Healing,” Nicole says, flinging her arms in the air.  She looks too comfortable to move. Kim sighs and looks mournfully between her empty mug and the kitchen area.

      “And before you go saying that’s a boring answer, think it through,” she continues.  “I mean, also healing people would be frickin’ amazing. But I want just healing in general.  I could like…’heal’ a bug in my code without even trying to look for it. I could heal the damage to the planet.  I could heal a corrupt society. I could just...fix the entire universe. Healing is the best.”

      Yeah, these are the kinds of conversations I stayed alive for.  This is way better than talking about past and present ghosts.

      Kim and Nicole chat for a bit while the rest of the crew slowly come to life.  

      Liam hands me a drink thing after checking my temperature (better, but still a fever, Mark).  My chest squeezes when he looks at me because _you said, Watney_ , but first thing in the morning is not the time for spilling my guts out, so I force myself to relax.   _Later_ , I promise myself.

      After some shuffling around while the crew grabs food and goes over their tasks, Martinez declares that his job for the day is to entertain me, and drags over his chair and laptop.  He opens up a playlist of what appears to be twelve consecutive episodes of Ducktales (the newer one).

      “Might solve a mystery~, or rewrite hist’ry!” Nicole sings loudly, skidding across the Hab with some sort of sandwich thing to sit on the floor and watch with us.

      “I thought you had to check on the MAV systems today,” Martinez asks, tilting the screen anyway so she can see better.

      “I have time for one,” she pouts.  “I’ve got another 25 minutes of scheduled leisure time before I have to get ready to go out.  And anyway, I love this show.”

      “Fair enough.”

* * *

 

      I have to admit, the show is growing on me too, but after four straight hours watching it, I’m ready for a break.  I look away from the screen, dizzy and tired. Everything more than five meters away is blurry.

      “I think I’m good on entertainment,” I announce.  “I don’t know if it’s Saturday or not, but morning is definitely over.”

      “Is it Saturday,” Martinez asks no one, dramatically hitting the pause instead of closing the software.  “I don’t know either, and I don’t care. We are mature adults, which means we can own credit cards, do taxes, and watch cartoons whenever we want.”

      Oh shit.  “Martinez,” I look at him, panicked.

      His hand hovers over the play button and he looks back at me, worried.  “What? You don’t like cartoons?”

      “Martinez, I haven’t filed my taxes in four years.  That’s bad, right? I can’t do them from here, can I?  I don’t even know what my income is.”

      He stares at me, frozen.

      “Does NASA have my employment income sheet?  Can they file it for me? Oh man, my health insurance was probably cancelled on account of me being dead, right?  Can I get it back? I never actually died, so I should be able to, right?” My breathing quickens as I suddenly realize the sheer magnitude of adult human things I haven’t been doing this whole time.

      I move a shaky hand over my mouth.  I ran out of useable toothbrushes around sol 250.  “Jesus Christ my dentist is going to _kill me_.”

      Martinez is still frozen, one hand over the keyboard.  His eyes are wide and appear to be watering slightly. His mouth twitches.

      “Oh my god, I didn’t vote.  I don’t even know who the president is!  When’s the next election?!” This is genuinely distressing.  Did I cancel my credit card before I left? No, I died, it would’ve cancelled itself, right?  ... _right?!_

      Martinez cracks up, face buried in his arms, arms shaking on the bed.

      “NO this is _serious_!  Tax evasion is a federal crime!”

      He shakes his head, his arms doing absolutely nothing to muffle his laughter.

      “Shit my _licence_!  I’m going to have to retake the entire stupid driving exam!”

      He rolls sideways and falls off his chair, gasping.  “Stop,” he laughs, “stop I can’t breathe.”

      I lean back against my pillow and cover my eyes, head swimming with stress and exhaustion.  “I didn’t renew my contract with NASA either. I’m gonna have so much paperwork,” I moan.

      I can’t even see Martinez anymore, he’s on the floor somewhere, slightly under the bed.  I can still hear him though, the useless lump.

      Liam makes his way over and lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder.  “You’ll be able to file your taxes when you get back, there are extensions for people with special circumstances, like people in combat zones, and victims of natural disasters.  And since you’ve been presumed dead, you haven’t earned any taxable income for most of the time you were away from Earth. It’s all going to be factored in to the current tax year.”

      I peek at him miserably through my hands.  “Really?”

      Martinez is still cackling on the floor.

      Liam nods.  “Actually, one of the Apollo 13 astronauts got sent up at the last second and hadn’t filed his taxes either.  He had to wait for mission control to stop laughing, but they were able to get him an extension.”

      I sigh, slinking down against my pillow.  “I don’t even remember what the forms look like.”

      He tilts his head and projects an aura of supreme calm.  “Mark, breathe. You can pay people to do your taxes. You could probably even get people to do it for free if you let them brag about it.  Don’t worry about your health insurance either, NASA’s not going to leave you hanging, after all you’ve been through, and all you’ve done. They’re going to pay you for every hour you spent here, plus overtime and hazard pay, your missed Christmas bonuses, your vacation, and compensation for injuries and duress sustained during your mission.  And they’re going to cover whatever you need for your recovery, including rehab, therapy and treatment for any complications or chronic conditions you might have as a result of excessive time in space. I could give you the numbers if you want.”

      I breathe, shaking my head.  I don’t need to know the numbers to know it’s a lot.  Especially given I that I haven’t paid any bills since leaving Earth.

      Martinez has calmed down to a giggle every few minutes but still hasn’t managed to crawl his way back to his chair.

      “That’s going to be a lot,” I wince.  Wasn’t there talk about their funding being cut?

      “Mark,” he waits for me to make eye contact.  “Seriously, don’t worry about it. It’s the very, very least they can do.  Plus they want you to be happy. Partly so they don’t feel bad about asking you to participate in research studies, and partly so you don’t sue them.”

      That...hadn’t even occurred to me as a thing I could do.  Why would I, anyway? “We knew the risks,” I mumble.

      Martinez finally stops laughing, a hand appearing at the edge of the bed.  The rest of him follows as he sits up on the floor. He’s still got tears on his face from his temporary loss of composure, but there’s no trace of a smile on him now.

      “No,” he says, “we didn’t.”

      I have nothing to say.  I know what he means.

      He looks at Sojourner and my pile of potatoes, then back at me.  “We knew there were risks,” he says, gently grabbing one of my hands and lifting it up.  It’s all skin and bones and bruises, there’s barely any muscle on it. “But we sure as hell didn’t know all of them.”

      I cast my eyes down, frantically trying not to imagine what the rest of me looks like.  Don’t. Don’t think about it, Watney. My head is spinning, all the energy draining out of me now that the minor crisis is over.

      Mars cackles in the background.  I’ve been here long enough to know the sound isn’t coming from outside.

      I’m so tired.

      “Shut the fuck up, Mars,” I sigh, closing my eyes and waiting for the world to right itself.

      For a moment all is silent save for the hum of the oxygenator and the laughter echoing in my brain.  My hand is released and drops back down to the bed.

      “What?”

      I open my eyes to a worried looking Martinez.  ...what? “What, what?” I ask.

      Mars cackles louder.  The Hab still hasn’t stopped spinning.  Martinez looks at something on my other side.  I turn my head to look. Liam is still there. He pulls up a chair and closes the laptop we were watching cartoons on.

      Shit.

      Mars laughs.  The coffee cups rattle.  I feel sick.

      Shit.  “Uh…”

      “Okay,” Martinez says.  “You were talking to Mars just now, buddy.  I think we should discuss that.”

      I turn to look at him, squinting a little and wishing everything would just stop moving.

      “Just a habit I got into I guess,” I try to laugh it off.  This is not how I wanted this conversation to go. Martinez shouldn’t be here.  “Don’t worry about it.”

      “I’m over here, Watney,” he says, but his lips aren’t moving.  I blink hard. Not-Martinez comes into focus. Real Martinez is sitting a few feet to the right of him, looking downright panicked.

      Shit shit.

      “Gotcha?” I try.  He’s not buying it.  My head is pounding.

      “Mark, as your doctor, I need honesty from you,” Liam says.

      I look towards the general direction his voice was coming from.  Could you not both sit on the same side of the bed? The Hab spins harder, black edges creeping into my vision.

      Shit shit shit.

      “You and I are going to sit here until we figure out your symptoms.  No more stalling, no more deflecting,” he says seriously, in his serious doctor voice.  My vision starts going darker.

      Shit shit crap shit.

      “And we’re going to start with what you’re hearing right now.”

      Ironically that’s the last thing I hear before a sound like rushing waterfalls takes over, the spinning world going completely black.  I feel myself pitching sideways.

      Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna separate this into two chapters, but then I didn't, so have a super giant one.  
> Don't stay up all night, kids. Particularly if you're already not in the best of health.
> 
> ...Also the Ducktales reboot is amazing, I won't apologize.


	22. Time Out

Sol 1427 

      The beach is long, the storm raging, the lighthouse distant.

      The winds howl over the sound of the launch sequence.  My thoughts howl over the wind.

      Parasols and RTG flags fly past me as I fight to reach safety.  I gasp with the effort of dragging my EVA suited ass over the sand and crashing waves of this unknown island.  A rover drives by, but doesn’t stop. They don’t see me, and I can’t call them. They turned off the comms earlier because I was being annoying and they forgot to turn them back on.

      Each step is becoming harder, my movements getting increasingly sluggish.  It’s the oxygen deprivation. I’m not going to make it to the lighthouse.

      The sun goes out as clouds thunder in.  I turn to gawk at it, the black sky, the twister.  Something big is heading this way. Pathfinder. It’s spinning towards me, lights flashing, wires whipping around it.

      I’m too tired to move.  My suit is getting heavier.  Or maybe the gravity got stronger.

      Sinking to my knees, I watch Pathfinder approach.  I’m sorry, everyone. I tried. I tried. But it’s going to hit me.  I close my eyes as the Soyuz rocket lifts off. Metal hits my head.

 

* * *

       I wake up with a shaky gasp, eyes flying open and then immediately slamming shut.  Holy crap my head hurts.

      “Good morning, Mark.”

      Liam’s voice makes it through my throbbing skull.  Ow.

      “I’m glad you’re awake.”

      I’m not.  I’d much rather be asleep.  Preferably indefinitely.

      “You’ve been unconscious for fourteen hours.”

      It wasn’t long enough.  I frown against the pain.  I don’t think I can do the smiley mask today.

      “You won’t be able to fall back asleep, Mark.”

      Something happened, right?  The last time I was awake?

      “So you might as well face me.”

      Shit.  That’s right.

      I groan, dragging my hands over my face before resigning myself to face the disco.  I pry my eyes open and observe him.

      His expression right now reminds me of my old high school English teacher, the year he decided to retire early.  The bags under his eyes do not look good on him. Guilt stabs through me. This is my fault, right?

      If he had glasses he’d be pulling them off to clean them so he can use them to focus his not-angry-just-disappointed vision.  He sighs, and I shit you not, slouches a little, running a hand through unkempt hair. Christ, what did I do to the guy?

      “Okay, Mark.  I think we need to have a talk.”

      ...yeah.  I guess we do.

      Instead of answering, I drag myself into a sitting position with my stupid weak shaky arms.  My face is burning and my eyes are prickling. I don’t think it’s the fever. A protein drinks appears in front of my face before I can figure out what to say.  I take it wordlessly. I don’t deserve to complain.

      “But first, how are you feeling?”

      I sip the drink.  Strawberry. Silver foil.  White sticker. Yellow straw.  Black text.

      “Your temperature is back to normal.”

_Say something._

      “You’re out of immediate danger, so today would be a good day to start stretches and help you regain a little mobility.”

_Say something, Watney._

      “If all goes well, you might be able to start getting up on your own in the next few sols.”

_Say something.  Say something. Talk._ I clench the drink package with both hands, eyes burning.

      “The swelling is pretty much gone now, in your right knee.  How does it feel?”

_Watney.  Please. Speak._  My throat constricts, salt water blurring the room.   _You promised.  You promised._

      “Mark.”

      I lift a sleeve to my eyes, shame and tiredness and despair flooding me for reasons I can’t fathom.  I’m just so done with this whole situation I wish everything would just _stop._  No more questions, no more waiting, no more struggling, no more trying to explain myself.  Just stop. All of it. Everything. I can’t tell what I’m feeling anymore, but it’s too much.  I want to scream. Loudly. I want to scream until there’s nothing left of me.

      The still-full drink is pulled from me, warm arms wrapping around me a moment later.  I stifle a sob. Why am I like this?

      “It’s okay, Mark.  I’ve got you.”

      I shudder, feeling something wet on my face.  I blink furiously, refusing to sink into the hug.   _No_ . My breath hitches.   _No no.  I don’t want to do this._

      “I’ve got you.”

_No no no no._  I’m shaking with the effort of keeping the mask on.  It’s cracked almost in two. He can see right through it.

      “You don’t need to fight this alone.”

      Tears are streaming down my face despite my best efforts to contain them.   _Oh fuck, I can’t do this._

      “You’re safe, Mark.”

      The dam breaks, emotions welling up in my throat and spilling out through my eyes.  The full weight of the universe crushes down on me, and it’s all I can do to cling desperately to the warmth, hoping it’s enough to shield me.  I can’t think straight. All the light in existence is getting sucked into the black hole in the center of my chest. It hurts. The storm is overtaking me, drowning out everything, everyone.  No matter how hard I kick, I’ll never be able to resurface.

      I’m sobbing openly now, completely unaware of my surroundings beyond the warm solid thing I’m leaning into.   _I can’t live like this.  I don’t want to live like this._

      My chest is tight.  My back hurts. The universe is going to crush me.  It’s hard to breathe.

_I don’t want to live._

      “It’s going to be okay.  Not today, but one day. You have to hold on to that.”

_I don’t know if I can._

      “We’re here.  And we’re not going to let you fall.”

_Fuck you, Mars._

      “It’s going to be okay.”

_Fuck you, Mars._

      “I promise.”

_I’m already dead._

      For a long time I just sit there, letting myself feel like crap.  The optimist in me is long gone, maybe permanently.  All that's left is this mess of a person.

      Eventually, the storm dies down to a slight tremble and a headache.  I exhale, out of energy, out of tears.  I can’t will myself to pull away. I can’t will myself to do anything.

      “You have to help us help you.  Tell us what you need, Mark.”

_I need off this planet._

      “Can we blow it up,” my voice cracks.  Pathetic.

      “Can we blow what up, Mark?”

      I sniff.

      “Mark?”

      “Mars,” my voice is muffled against his shirt.  “When we leave. Can we blow it up?”

      “I don’t…”

      I shiver.

      “I’ll talk to NASA about it,” he promises.

      ...who promises?

      …...Liam.  Liam is here.

      A name is attached to the warmth.  In a few hours, when I have more energy, this is going to embarrass the shit out of me.  Right now though I’m just so relieved to not be alone anymore. I can cry and breakdown and someone will care.  If I try something stupid there are people to stop me. I’m not the only living being on the planet anymore. I’m not alone.

      “I’m sorry.”

      Arms tighten around me, then relax.  A chin rests on my head.

      “Are you kidding?  I’ve been trying to get you to do this since you got here.  I’m surprised it took you this long. Crying is medically good for you, Mark.  It releases oxytocin and endorphins to improve your mood, and gets rid of pent up stress.  This won’t be the last time this happens before you start to really feel better. It’s important not to suppress it.”

      “No, I’m sorry.  There are things you should probably know.  But I can’t make myself say them.”

      I shake with him when he chuckles.  “That’s the astronaut instinct, I think.  Not telling anyone about health issues lest they take you off the mission.  It’s a problem NASA doctors have been struggling with for decades.”

_Please, for the love of all that is good, take me off the mission._

      “I’d like you to try.”

      I shake my head against his chest.

      “How about we start with how you’re feeling right now.  Physically.”

      My face is burning from crying.

      “My head is killing me,” I whisper hoarsely.

      “Okay.  That’s a thing we can fix.  I’ll grab you some Tylenol and water.  You’re probably dehydrated.”

      “Tylenol?  Seriously?”  That’s not going to do shit.

      “Seriously.  By your own admission you’ve built up a tolerance to vicodin, and I’d prefer to keep the morphine for emergencies.  Besides, it’s most likely a dehydration headache. The water will be doing most of the work.”

      He lets go of me and shifts, preparing to stand.  A jolt of panic shoots through me. _Don’t leave me here._  I clench my fists in his lab coat, unable to let go.   _Please don’t leave me here alone._  He freezes.

      “Mark,” he says gently, “nobody’s going anywhere.  There’s nowhere to go, so we couldn’t if we wanted to.  And we don’t want to. We like you.”

      Yeah fucking right.  Who could like this? I’m a disaster.  I’m needy. I’m barely human.

      “You’ll feel better once you’ve had some water.  Will you let me go get you some? I promise I’ll be right back.”

      I nod.  The rest of me doesn’t move.

      “Take a deep breath, Mark.  You’ll be alright.”

      I sit and breathe.  Nothing happens. Get a grip, Watney.  I try to force my right hand to open but only succeed in making it shake.

      A hand is placed on my shoulder and everything drains out of me in a rush.  My arms fall to the bed with a ‘whumph’. I sit back against the pillow, too tired to hold myself up.  Liam lets go and stands up. He grabs Ollie from the side table and places him against my arm.

      “I’ll be back in a minute.”

      I sigh.  “Yeah. Okay.”

      With a last look at me, he turns and walks over to the other side of the room.  I take the opportunity to scope out the place. By some miracle, nobody else is in the Hab.  ...I bet Liam kicked them out.

      I woke up pretty abruptly though.  Maybe he’s got some sort of doctor sixth sense.

      I pick Ollie up, staring into his bear eyes in an attempt to get away from myself.  I wish I could crawl out of my head and just leave. I seem to keep doing that accidentally anyway.  I’m not going to win this staring competition though, no matter how badly I space out. My face drops forward into synthetic fur as a pit of worry twists coils in my stomach.  This is ridiculous. All that crying and I still can’t calm the fuck down.

      Trying to breathe slowly and clear my mind does nothing but leave a nice quiet space for my thoughts to fill.  I bite my lip and hope Ollie will suffocate me.

      You fucking moron, Watney.  Thirty sols, that’s all you had to get through.  Then they’d bring you to the Hermes and they’d be stuck with you until you got back to Earth.  Now they hate you. They can’t even stand to be in the same room as you. They’re out prepping the MAV right now, so they can leave.  They hate you so much they’re willing to scrub their mission.

      I can’t even blame them.  I wish I could leave myself behind too.

      Footsteps come back towards me and I try to hastily wipe my face of emotions.  No need to make this harder than it has to be. It’s okay. You got to see humans again.  That’s all you wanted, really. Maybe they’ll leave you some morphine when they leave. Smile, Watney.  They’re good people. The least you could do is make this easier for them.

      I try for a smile as a weight in the center of my chest pulls my heart towards the ground.  I think I’m doing it right, but when I look up at Liam he stops dead in his tracks.

      “What’s wrong,” he asks, worry creasing his face.

      You suck at this, Watney.  I let the smile drop off my face.  “Nothing.”

      He steps forward and sits on the edge of the bed.  “No, something is wrong,” he hands me the tylenol and the water.  I take them absently. The water does help.

      “Come on, talk to me.”

      I sip the water quietly.  What would be the point? You’re all leaving anyway.

      “Mark, give me something.  You didn’t fight so hard for so long just to hide yourself away.  You’re already hurting. Why not get something out of it?”

      If I hadn’t just been crying for the last half-hour or so I’d probably start now.  Why don’t I talk to him? I said I would. But even though logically most of me knows they’re not just going to leave me behind, part of me is stuck in ‘what if’ mode.  If I only get 20 something more sols of people, I want them to be exclusively good memories. No discussing emotions, or worries, or all the different physical and psychological ways Mars has fucked me up.

      I don’t have the energy to keep up the happy mask, but I don’t have the energy to justify who I am behind it.  I swipe a tear away, frustrated, and look at Liam.

      “I don’t even know what to say.”

      He’s projecting this aura of supreme calm.  I’m sure it’s only working because I’m so tired, but some of the anxiety drains out of me.  He brushes a strand of hair out of his eyes and gives me a reassuring smile.

      “How about you start with what’s bothering you most?”

      I laugh hollowly.  There is no ‘bothering me most’.  It’s everything all at the same time.  “...can’t I just pass out again,” I joke.

      He winces.  “Please don’t, we were all really worried.”

      Shit, now I feel bad.  I sip the water to distract myself from the awkward pause in conversation.  He sighs.

      “Anyway, I’m glad you’re awake.  Did you even sleep the night before?”

      I cast my eyes down, embarrassed.  “Not really.”

      “Can you tell me why?”

      “I’m sorry, I can’t.”  I don’t look at him, not wanting to see the disappointment.  But I just had a breakdown, and if I have another one now I’ll probably die.

      He shifts slightly and I wait for him to get up and leave.  Go ahead, Liam. Get on with your life.

      “Okay, how about this,” he keeps talking instead of ditching me like a sensible person would.  “We’ll schedule an appointment. Give you a bit of time to think about what you want to say. I want to see you get better, Mark.  I know you’re always tired. I apologize if you want to keep pretending everything’s fine. I’m not going to let you do that. So when’s a good time for you?”

      Why are you being so nice to me?

      “Gee, let me check my schedule,” I joke bitterly.  He graciously ignores my tone.

      “Good.  Tomorrow afternoon it is.  Now, how would you like to get your mind off things?”

      I chance a look at him.  He’s waiting patiently, not a trace of annoyance in his eyes.  Despite all the time I’ve made him waste, he doesn’t seem like he’s sick of me yet.  If he’s faking it, he’s good.

      I guess I could throw him a bone.  I try for a smile again and manage to pass it off as genuine.

      “Yeah.  Taking my mind off things would be great", I say, making sure to meet his eyes.

      He smiles brightly and sits up straighter, looking a bit more energized.  “Great! We’ve got about 40 minutes before the others get back, so how about we start on those stretches.  When we’re done, by the way, I want you to finish your nutrient drink.”

      Damn smug doctors with my damn best interests at heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty much fluff. Because talking to people about your problems is hard, especially after spending so much energy hiding them. You can do it, Watney!


	23. Open Communications

Sol 12  
Rick Martinez

      Even though his military days were long behind him, Martinez still hadn’t trained himself out of 6am wake-up calls. As such, though he was not always the first one up, he was definitely the first one alert. He ate his breakfast slowly (rehydrated...egg? Thing?) and watched Kim stumble out of bed clumsily. As she pawed around for a coffee packet, he thought fondly of Johanssen.

      Nicole got up next, yawning, and nodded a good morning before going to dig up some cereal. She was followed not long after by Sim, who bounced out of bed like a cartoon character.

      “You have way too much energy, dude,” Kim mumbled into her coffee cup. “I could have sworn during training you were a night owl like the rest of us.”

      He flashed her a big grin as he scavenged for food. “How can ye be so tired inna morning? We’re in space!”

      “Earth is in space too, Simish,” Nicole blinked sleepily in his direction.

      “Mars, then!” he pulled out a food package, squinting at it for a moment before shrugging and opening it. “Are you not even the least bit excited?”

      “Izz earlyyy,” moaned Nicole.

      Kim answered by taking a long sip of her coffee.

      Sim glanced at Martinez hopefully, but he shook his head with a sad smile. “Sorry. I did the excited thing last time. Honestly I just can’t wait to get home. With all of us.”

      Sim looked apologetic for a second before turning back to Kim and Nicole. “No fun, the lot of you,” he complained, stabbing into his breakfast thing and taking a bite. His face twisted in disgust as he stared down at his food in comic betrayal. “Forgot to rehydrate this. Powdered spinach casserole. Eugh.”

      Despite his early-bird upbringing, Félix tended to (try to) sleep in the most. He liked to joke that sleep was the main reason he left the family farm, so his terror sisters couldn’t wake him up and harass him to do their chores. Today though, he beat out Liam, the doctor’s exhaustion having finally caught up with him. Félix trudged over to the kitchen area and peered at Kim’s coffee for a moment before he nodded, dug out a cup, mixed his own coffee and set it down.

      “Morning,” he said to no one in particular, closing his eyes and looking like he’d rather go back to sleep.

      Kim saluted him with her cup.

      “So, what’s on the plan today?” Sim asked Martinez.

      Martinez got up to check NASA’s overnight messages. “Lesse...we got analysis of magnetic interference for you, Sample collection and equipment maintenance for me and Nicole, interfacial phenomena and thermophysical properties of high-temperature liquids for Kim, reduced gravity spore growth in artificial meteorites for Félix, and advanced protein crystallization for Liam. Geez. That’s a mouthful. And rest and recovery for Watney.”

      He looked up from the keyboard to see Sim nodding along. Everyone else still looked half-asleep.

      “I think Liam wanted to talk to us too,” Nicole added, “and later we’re getting kicked out to get some fresh recycled air while he spends some time with Mark.”

      “Yep,” he nodded, checking the time. “NASA wants us to double check our job on the new MAV seat while Liam’s doing that. Nobody wants it getting loose when we’re shooting off the planet. Félix and Kim also get to shove Watney’s samples on there so we know how much room we have to work with to bring our own stuff back.”

      Félix reached for his coffee with his eyes closed and grabbed a can of something instead. He took a sip of it, then opened his eyes in tired befuddlement. “C’pas du café,” he mumbled, and took another sip.

      “What are you drinking,” Kim asked in amusement, looking slightly more alert.

      “Crisse de…” he frowns, blinks. “maple syrup.”

      Nicole got up to throw out her empty cereal package and poked his arm as she passed by. “Did you seriously forget how to say maple syrup in french?”

      He blinked again, slowly, and squinted at the can. “Non.”

      Martinez snorted, earning him a scowl as Félix set it down and picked up his coffee. He chugged it all in one shot, set his cup down, and laid his face in his palms. After a moment, in which Martinez is reasonably sure Félix fell back asleep, he lifted his head again.

      “Sirop d’érable,” he announced to the room, raising an arm like a king delivering wisdom to his people. Wisdom delivered, he promptly got up to grab pancakes.

      Nicole rolled her eyes as Martinez looked over at the two still-sleeping men. He’d been terrified when Watney got sick, so sure he was going to lose him all over again. And then, just as he started getting better, he scared the shit out of him by talking nonsense and passing out. Martinez wasn’t stupid. He knew there was more going on with his friend than he’d let on. He just wished Watney knew that it didn’t matter to him. Whatever was going on, whatever new bullshit he had to deal with, whoever he was now, Watney was his friend. All Martinez wanted to do was stand by him and help.

      He watched Watney’s chest rise and fall, reassuring himself that he was okay. But the lines on his gaunt face, and the blue smudges under his eyes, and the way he winced every time he moved told a different story. He was not okay. And he was hiding things, trying to put them at ease and pretend everything was fine when it so clearly wasn’t. It hurt to watch.

      They all had standing orders not to wake Watney unless there was an emergency and they had to evacuate. Liam though, had a job to do. “Should somebody wake him up,” he asked, pointing to his bunk.

      “Probably,” Kim agreed.

      They all collectively looked at Nicole. She sighed, exasperated. “Yeah, I see how it is. I’ll get him.”

      Sim grinned disarmingly at her. “Sorry lass, it’s just you’re the nicest one out of all of us. He’ll be less cranky if you do it.”

      “Yeah yeah, you guys just don’t want to get up,” she huffed, but she was smiling. She walked over to what they’d fondly dubbed the ‘caffeine drawer’ and pulled out a package of assam tea, Liam not being a coffee drinker.

      “You see,” Sim pointed, “the nicest.”

      She stuck her tongue out at him as she prepared the tea. “You could be nice if you tried, Sim. Don’t give up on yourself,” she teased, bringing it over to Liam’s bunk.

      They watched as she set the mug down on a side table and shook Liam’s shoulder.

      “Paging Dr. Graeves, it’s time to get up.”

      There was a moment of silence before he sat up straight, blinking drowsily, his hair sticking up all over the place. He frowned in confusion as he took in the sight of the crew.

      “You’re awake,” he stated, puzzled. “When are we?”

      “The year 2040,” Martinez quipped helpfully.

      “May-ish?” Kim guessed.

      “Sol 12,” Sim added.

      “Morning,” Félix sighed, mixing a second cup of coffee.

      Nicole shook her head in exasperation. “7:30. That’s tea,” she said, pointing. “You should drink the tea.”

      He reached for it mechanically, closing his eyes as he drank it. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “It’s really 7:30? I should have been up over an hour ago.”

      “You needed the rest,” Kim said. “We want you at peak efficiency, you’re no good to anyone if you’re all sleep-deprived. Besides, with all the extra hours you’ve been putting in, you deserve to sleep in a bit.”

      “Okay,” he hid a yawn behind a hand. He slid out of bed and padded over with his tea to sit down with them. Nicole followed.

      “Good morning, sleepy head,” Félix smirked, as though it hadn’t taken him two cups of coffee and a shot of maple syrup for him to form coherent sentences again. “You beat Mark, at least.”

      “Mm. Good,” he yawned again. “Actually I wanted to talk to you guys about him.”

      “Should we not wait for him to wake up,” Sim asked, looking over at Watney’s sleeping form.

      Liam shook his head. “Mark is trying really hard right now to pretend he’s still the same guy he was when he got to Mars. Probably because he wants everyone to keep treating him normally. Openly discussing some of the issues he’s having, particularly when he doesn’t want us to know, will just make him angry and uncomfortable. For the moment it’s best if we just play along. I’m hopeful he opens up a little during our session later today, but I’ll be very surprised if he tells me everything that’s going on.”

      Kim kicked her chair closer. “To be fair, there’s an awful lot to tell,” she said. “judging by the...what, 400 hours of video logs, 150 odd pages of text logs, and rover full of samples, experiments and assorted other odds and ends he’s cobbled together over the years. It’s gonna take more than a few sessions to even begin to work through all he’s gone through. And a lot of it is probably unpleasant. I can’t blame the guy for not wanting to talk about it.”

      “Yeah, no, I get it,” he said. He smiled gratefully as Sim passed him his standard breakfast of yogurt and granola. “I just worry that all the things he’s not telling us are going to catch up to him. Trauma isn’t easy to deal with, I wish he’d let himself relax around us a little so we could help him with it. But it’s going to take time for him to warm up to us. So,” he interrupted himself with another yawn and blushed, embarrassed. “Sorry. I’d like to know if you’ve observed any odd behavior from him.”

      Silence filled the Hab as they looked at each other uncomfortably. Nobody wanted to be the first one to speak.

      Liam looked between them. “Guys, if it helps, I’ve already made observations of my own” he prompted, “And what I’ve seen isn’t nearly as bad as some of the things NASA said might be going on with him. Just the fact that he can hold a conversation and is generally aware of his surroundings is far better than what we could have hoped for. He’s already doing great, but we can’t help him with the problems he does have if we don’t know what they are. I just want to confirm my own conclusions. So what have you got for me?”

      Nicole glances at Watney’s bunk. “Well...I mean, he stares into space a lot. So do I really, when I’m thinking, but Mark seems to just zone out really hard, for hours sometimes.”

      Liam nodded, and waited for more.

      Sim spun his chair from side to side uneasily. “I’ve heard him talking to himself. I don’t think he even realized he was doin’ it. But...I mean, of course he does, he’d have had to. Otherwise he’d have no voice now. I don’ mind it, but it’s the sort of thing the press’ll jump on ‘im for when we get back.”

      Liam stared into his tea. “Dissociation is a common side effect of isolation, so his zoning out was expected. Time also tends to slows down. Mars’ longer days probably didn’t help there. His body is still recovering from starvation and injuries right now, so he’s tired all the time. But once he starts getting better, I wouldn’t be surprised if his sleep cycle adjusted to the length of a sol. He’s going to have a hell of a time getting used to 24 hour days again.”

      “What about…um...” Martinez trailed off. He eyed Watney, then the rest of the crew, not wanting to discuss his friend’s personal business in front of everyone.

      “The incident two sols ago?” Liam guessed.

      Martinez ran a hand through his hair, and nodded. “He told Mars to shut up, like he was really hearing something. And he was talking to the air when he was trying to talk to me. Was that...because he didn’t sleep? Or was it something more serious?”

      “Only Mark can answer that for sure, and the lack of sleep probably didn’t help. Many isolation studies report that subjects started hallucinating. Mostly lights and geometric shapes at first, then more complex forms. I’ve noticed that some of the time, Mark’s not so much staring into space as he is staring at something. It’s possible that he’s hiding hallucinations. Tiredness and vitamin deficiency makes that sort of thing worse, so getting some decent sleep finally will hopefully help with that. But this is new territory, so nothing is guaranteed. Anything else?”

      Martinez scowled at the floor, not entirely satisfied with that answer. He wished he could wave a glittery fairy wand and magic Watney better. Or time travel back to sol 6 and move him out of the way of the solar dish. But he couldn’t, and Watney’s treatment options right now contained far too many ‘probably’s and ‘hopefully’s for his liking. It promised a long struggle for him to even start feeling okay again, and Mars would undoubtedly haunt him for the rest of his life.

      He looked up to the rest of Ares 4 watching him patiently. He raised his eyebrows at them.

      “That’s pretty much all I noticed,” Kim said. “Did we miss anything?”

      Martinez sighed. He didn’t want to rat his friend out, but he’d known him the longest, and he knew what was normal for him, and what wasn’t. Watney’s cover wasn’t as good as he thought it was. He looked at Liam, trying to decide what to say.

      “I just want to help him,” Liam said sincerely. “If you’ve noticed something wrong, it’s in Mark’s best interests that I know about it.”

      Martinez nodded, mind made up. Sorry, buddy, he thought to himself. “His jokes are on point.”

      Liam frowned, puzzled. “Is that unusual? His file says he’s a regular comedian. He was selected partially because of that, it really improved team morale.”

      “Yeah, Watney was always cracking jokes. Between the two of us, we drove Lewis crazy.”

      “...but?” Liam prompted.

      Martinez slouched a little, eyes drifting back to the floor. “I dunno. He used to be kind of proud of them, he’d get this huge grin whenever he told a pun and Johanssen would groan, or Beck would just walk out of the room, or something. But now when we laugh he just seems...relieved? Like he’s passed a test or something.”

      “You’re saying he’s not joking for the sake of getting reactions anymore?”

      “Yeah, he’s...it’s the same thing when he fakes a smile to make us feel better. He jokes now to make us think he’s gone back to normal, it’s like a defensive behaviour. And I know he needs it- Watney hates special treatment, he needs us to all treat him normally. I just wish he trusted us enough to not cover it up when he’s having a bad day. So if he makes a joke, and he doesn’t look pleased when he gets a reaction, he’s probably feeling like crap.”

      The room was quiet as everyone absorbed this new information. In retrospect, it was obvious. Given his situation, there was no way Watney wouldn’t be feeling like crap. He was still on Mars, after all. They could promise him safety all they wanted, but there was still every possibility that something would go wrong.

      “Thank you for telling me,” Liam said eventually. “I’ll keep that in mind when I talk to him. Is there anything else you noticed?”

      Martinez shook his head.

      “Okay,” Liam looked at them all carefully. “There is one more thing I wanted to bring up. I started doing stretches with him yesterday, so with any luck he’ll be able to get up and move around the Hab in the next few sols.”

      “Alright!” Nicole whooped, “he’s got to be sick of lying in bed for so long.”

      Félix smiled in agreement. “It will be good for him to move around. Botanists were meant to study plants, not imitate them.”

      “I want someone in the Hab with him at all times,” Liam said seriously, effectively killing the happy mood. “I’ve taken all the dangerous objects out of the washroom, so if you’re looking for scissors or razors, they’re in the drawer with the painkillers. It’s easier if everything is in the same place.”

      There was a sort of horrified silence as they took in what Liam was implying. Martinez covered his eyes, breathing deeply. After a moment, he dropped his hands back to his lap, and nodded.

      “You think he’d try to kill himself?” Kim asked for all of them. “After everything he went through to live?”

      Liam finished his cold tea before answering. “I don’t know. He’s not giving us a lot of information right now, and he’s hiding a lot. I’m not willing to take the chance that he’s hiding being suicidal. Don’t hover over him or anything, unless he’s displaying worrying behaviour, but keep an eye on him. This might turn out to be unnecessary, but I’d much rather err on the side of caution here.”

      “What will we do when we go up to the Hemes?” Félix worried, “here, our space is small enough that us being there is not suspicious. But on the Hermes he will notice if someone is constantly following him around.”

      Liam sighed. “Psych and I are working on it. It’s not a perfect plan, I admit. But let’s focus on the now. Just let him know you’re there for him, go sit next to him if you see him staring at nothing for too long. Keep reminding him that he’s not by himself. I know we’ve all got work to do, but NASA’s made it clear that Mark is our priority.” He watched them; Martinez already looking like he wanted to go wait beside him, Nicole getting a fiercely protective glint in her eyes. Mark would be alright. “Any last questions?”

      He was met with head shakes all around. “Great. Then I hereby proclaim our secret meeting over.”

      Kim smiled at him. “Thanks Liam. We’ll take good care of him. Alright everyone, let’s go do some cool science shit.”

      “Don’t let Annie Montrose catch you swearing,” Félix cautioned. “The last guy who swore on camera had to do a whole press conference to apologize for it.”

      “I can’t believe I’m being lectured about swearing from a Quebecker,” she laughed. “Thanks. But I’ll have plenty of time to practice speaking like a lady when we’re back on Earth.”

      “Suit yourself,” he smirked. "J’m’en câlice.”

      “That’s not even a real swear,” she stuck her tongue out as they disbanded.

      He laughed softly as he headed to his lab table. Kim grinned, watching her crew go to work. She nodded to Martinez as he and Nicole suited up to go collect samples. She held his gaze for a moment, silently promising to watch over Mark. He was in good hands. Martinez flashed her a thumbs up, and they were off.

      She checked Mark’s bunk one last time (still sleeping), before moving to her lab table to do her own work. They were a crew of seven, now. And they were all going to get home safe.

      All of us, she promised herself.

* * *

 

Sol 1428

      “This doesn’t have to be awkward, Mark. Just relax.”

      I’m sitting here (awkwardly) while Liam leans back in his chair with his laptop open, trying to look casual. ...I don’t think he’s ever been casual a day in his life. I’m a little relieved to see him looking more rested and put together than the last time I saw him.

      “Yeah, I guess.” Stop giving one word answers like a sullen teenager, Watney. It’s not all bad. Hab lights dance across the surface of the drink I’m holding. Liam refused to give me coffee in exchange for my full cooperation, but after some pestering he let me have tea. I sip it slowly, nearly glowing because _finally something warm_. I like oolong more than I remember. But it’s only half as good as coffee, so I only need to half cooperate.

      “We’re just having a conversation,” he reminds me. Mhmm.

      “Conversation skills are a little rusty,” I warn. “Don’t be offended if I just tune you out and stare into space or something though. You’re not boring or anything, that’s just...um...a thing. That I do now, apparently.”

      I don’t mind admitting that one. Pretty sure Félix has already tattled on me for that anyway. Liam’s laptop klickety-klacks as he types that in.

      “That’s pretty normal,” he says, looking up with a smile.

      “Really?” I deliberately look him in the eye, trying to avoid spacing out right now.

      “Yep. It’s a way to take a break so you don’t get overwhelmed. Although in your case I suspect you got into that habit to help time go by, and to distance yourself from your solitude. If you want to work on that, every hour or so you could get into the habit of deliberately taking in the space around you.”

      Huh. That’s actually useful information, there.

      “You mean I’m not special?” Aren’t you supposed to tell me what a disaster I am and how much work it’s going to be to fix me?

      He pulls a face as he tries to explain how I’m totally ordinary and boring without hurting my feelings. Give it your best shot, dude. You can’t do more damage than I’ve already done.

      He clears his throat and rubs his hands together. “I mean, most people who suffer from prolonged isolation do it in prison, or arctic expeditions or something. So you definitely get points for originality. But the end result is the same.”

      He’s looking at me cautiously, so I throw him a grin. We don’t need two of us overthinking things. “Aw, damn. And here I thought I was onto a hot new trend I could market.”

      He smiles back, relieved. “Nope. Sorry.”

      “Shoot.”

      “How would you even sell that?”

      “I don’t know, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. ...training seminars?”

      He laughs, and I relax a little, losing focus already. I pinch my leg to try and bring myself back. Take in the space around me, right?

      Well, we’ve got lab tables, bunk beds, a small kitchenette and a crapton of equipment that I’m not allowed to touch. I stare at it, my hands itching to do something useful again. A thousand sols of fending for myself; planting things, fixing things, breaking and reforming other things, and making use of absolutely every shred of material at my disposal. And now I can’t touch any of it. This isn’t your mission, Watney. This isn’t your science. There’s no more problems for you to solve. Be a good hitchhiker and wait it out.

      I blink hard and shake myself. That was five minutes of me staring at a lab table. Yeah, great trick, Liam. I check in on him, waiting patiently for me to come back.

      “What’s on your mind?”

      Why are you guys always so curious about what I’m thinking? Go get your own thoughts! I shrug casually, but the effect is ruined when stabbing pain runs through my back and I have to stop and catch my breath again. Stupid mortal body with its stupid physical limitations. Ow. what was the question again? What’s on my mind?

      “Just childhood trauma manifesting itself as erratic behavior in my adult self,” I answer glumly, trying to make my face look extra sad.  "We should probably discuss my experiences as a five year-old."

      Liam shakes his head at me, looking genuinely disappointed at the quality of my jokes. “...you know that’s not how therapy works, right? That’s just a myth propagated by lazy Hollywood writers whose research only extended to things they vaguely remember about Sigmund Freud. Who was...incorrect about a lot of things. And died, might I add, about a hundred years ago. We’ve learned a few things since then.”

      “Touchy subject.” But at least it got you off-topic.

      “Sorry,” he says, still looking faintly annoyed at old-timey movie directors. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to sit through one of these stiff and awkward ‘lie down and tell me about your feelings’ deals. This is just a conversation, all I’m trying to do is find out what we can do to help you until we’re closer to Earth and you can talk to a real therapist, which, I feel the need to mention, I am not.”

      “Alright, alright, noted.”

      “Good,” he adjusts the tilt of his laptop screen and peers at me over the top of it. “So tell me about your parents.”

      I huff a laugh and drink my tea quickly to try to cover it up. Put on your serious face, Watney. “My parents are rad,” I say, sadly. I’m trying to get a tear to fall, but of course now I can’t fucking cry. “It’s awful. All the kids befriended me so they could go to my house and meet them. I don’t think I’ve ever had a real, meaningful relationship because my parents are too cool. Y’know, forget even talking about me. I think I’d prefer to just talk about them, and how…,” I add a warble to my voice for effect, “just really, terribly wonderful they are.”

      I pretend to burst into tears. I peek out from between my fingers to gauge his reaction, but he’s gone back to typing on his laptop, looking faintly bored. I guess I’m not getting the oscar. Maybe this act just doesn’t work on a guy who’s seen me burst into tears for real. Bah.

      He puts his laptop on a nearby table and gets up. “I feel for you, Mark. I really do. I can see you’re distraught. Can I get you more tea?”

      “You’re letting me have more? Yes, gimme,” I hold out my mug to him. “I am very distraught.”

      He quirks a smile as he takes it. “Don’t get all excited, I’m just re-using the same bag as before. You’re not getting extra caffeine or anything. And the fluids are good for you.”

      “You sure know how to suck the joy out of everything,” I call after him as he goes to add more water. He returns soon after with two mugs, handing me mine before sitting down and carefully pulling his open laptop closer.

      “Have you got oolong too?” I’m trying to lean over to look in his mug, like I can tell the difference by sight.

      He smirks at me and takes a sip. “Nope.”

      Boo.

      “As much as I’d love to hear about the Watney family, I’d rather talk about the incident a few sols ago,” he says, leaning on an armrest.

      Ugh. Consequences. I put on my happy mask and boost it about 200%, faking warehouses full of energy that I don’t have. “Oh my gosh, I _know_. I didn’t want to say anything, but I’m really worried about Martinez. It’s just not right for a grown man to possess that many episodes of Ducktales while simultaneously not having any Chip and Dale Rescue Rangers.”

      He puts his mug down and grabs his laptop properly. “Funny, but not what I meant.”

      I nod sagely. “Oh right, you mean the taxes thing. Was I able to get an extension?” I’m not gonna make this easy for you man, you wouldn’t give me coffee.

      He sighs the sigh of a man who came all the way to Mars to do science and advance humanity and instead got stuck babysitting a twelve year-old. “Yes, you were, but again, not what I meant.”

      “Hey, I missed a few things during that freak out. You know I don’t actually know where I’m going to live?” Probably have a good long wait in a clean room before I have to think about that.

      “We’ll work something out,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Alright, I’ll just ask. You seemed to be hearing something before you passed out. Could you tell me what it was?”

      “Um. I’d rather not.” I mean...I probably could, though. Didn’t I promise?

      He leans forward a little, ready to listen, waiting for a real answer. “Can you tell me why?”

      I don’t even know why. I’m tired and I’m not freaking out right now. Nobody else is here, so there’s no reason not to. Okay, alright, fine. But...

      “I really, really don’t want this to get back to Martinez, or the rest of Ares 3. They’ve probably already got some kind of guilt complex over my situation and don’t need me piling on to it.”

      He blinks in surprise. “Mark, you’re still bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. I won’t be telling anyone anything without express permission from you.”

      “Didn’t I sign away those rights when I joined the Ares program?” There were a lot of papers, and I’m pretty sure some of them were about not having privacy. To be honest, I didn’t fully read all of them. There were binders full. I bet Liam did. I bet he reads the terms of service every time he downloads new software.

      Oh, shit, he’s talking. I force myself to tune back in.

      “...es and no. I do have to report back to NASA to consult with their doctors and psychologists so we can work out how best to treat you. And yes, when we get back to Earth, you’ll probably be asked to participate in studies which may bring some of your condition to light. But until then, it’s all between doctors. Nobody is going to be told anything, including Ares 3, including your parents, and including NASA administration. Even if they ask.”

      “Oh. I didn’t know.” Good news, finally.

      “Have you been having hallucinations, Mark?”

      You spoiled the big surprise, man. He still doesn’t look particularly concerned, though. I guess that saves me saying it. I shrug, and nod. He types something in and smiles encouragingly.

      “Okay. How often?”

      “Um...less now than I used to. When I was still in the Hab- uh, my Hab, I mean, I’d get them a couple times a week. They got way worse on the drive here, to the point where it was getting really hard to keep going the right way because I kept getting distracted. It’s mostly better now though.” Jesus that was a bad drive, though. They might never give me my licence back.

      “Do you find it gets worse when you’re tired?”

      “I don’t know. I probably slept worse while I was driving, but it’s hard to say because I’m always tired.” I’m tired right now.

      He clicks his laptop shut decisively and swaps it for tea. “Okay. I’d like you to tell me the next time this happens. We could come up with a gesture or something if you don’t want to say it out loud because other people are in the room, but I would like you to keep me informed.”

      I sip my watered down oolong. I don’t like to make promises I might not be able to keep. “I’ll try,” I allow. And I will try. But sometimes I just want to keep my crazy to myself, y’know?

      “Thank you.”

      I slept the whole morning away and I’m still exhausted. This is officially the worst. I had more energy when I was in university cramming for finals. “Do you have any word on when me being tired all the time is going to stop being a thing?”

      He shoots me a sympathetic smile. “We’re not totally sure. Your exhaustion is from a combination of things; stress, starvation, poor quality of sleep, to name a few. Your body is also spending what little energy it has trying to repair itself. You’ve been getting proper nutrients and calories again, so you should start feeling a little better soon, but it’ll be a while before you’re up to doing much activity.”

      “So getting back to work is completely out of the question?” I really need something to do, Liam. I’m an empty hollow nothing without a project to work on.

      “You want to start getting 6am wake-up calls?” he raises his eyebrows at me, but the threat falls flat. I know they’re not allowed to wake the king. But you know what, if it means I get a project, then yes. My rem sleep is crap now anyway, I won’t be missing much.

      “I’m getting tired of lying around like a lump,” I whine.

      He shakes his head vehemently and points a stern finger at me. “Hey, hey. You’re lying around like a scientist.”

      “A very, very bored scientist. Who doesn’t do science anymore.”

      “Well, science can be dangerous if you aren’t 100% focused on what you’re doing,” he apologizes. And I get it, I do, but-

      “Hey- I’ll have you know I did all kinds of dangerous things while I wasn’t 100% focused on what I was doing. And I still turned out okay.”

      “We’d really prefer it if you didn’t do all kinds of dangerous things anymore, focused or not,” he pauses, considering. He twists his neck to look at the lab tables, rife with slides and petri dishes that promise wonder and adventure. He turns back to me. “How about this- after our stretches tomorrow, let’s see if you’re able to get up on your own. If you can, you can supervise the experiments we’re doing. Pick whichever one most interests you, and observe. You could double check our work if you want, or ask questions.”

      “I’ll be like a student again.” That’s gonna annoy the crap out of everyone.

      “Exactly. It’ll be a good refresher for you. And we’re each supposed to explain one of our experiments to elementary kids back on Earth, so it’ll be good practice for us if you make us talk about what we’re doing.”

      “I guess it’s better than nothing,” I allow. Man, I cannot wait to get up. I lift my right leg a few centimeters experimentally. Minimal pain in my back, but nowhere else. I can probably hold my own weight. Maybe. Hopefully.

      “Or you could just do some of Félix’ experiments, those won’t blow up on you. Martinez tells me botany’s not real science, so you should be fine,” he deadpans.

      I stare at him incredulously. I can’t believe Martinez corrupted him already. “Was...was that a joke, Doctor Graeves?”

      He smiles and smooths down his lab coat. “Well, it was an attempt at one, anyway.”

      “I didn’t know you cared.”

      “I do care, Mark,” not a trace of sarcasm, damn. “Which is why I think you should start your logs back up.”

      “...you don’t think I talk to myself enough already?” I know I’ve done it in front of you guys. I don’t really know how to stop, to be honest.

      He taps his laptop pointedly. “You can type them. Nobody’s going to read them, so if you have things you’re not comfortable sharing with me or anyone else, it’ll help you get it out of your system. Obviously, I’d rather you talk to people, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep everything bottled up.”

      I raise a hand to inspect. It seems a little less shaky and useless than it did last week. Typing might not be completely beyond me. And it would give me something to do. “Okay.”

      “Your tea’s getting cold,” he points out.

      Oh no, it doesn’t. I drink it in one shot. Even watered down oolong is infinitely better than my potato tea experiment. A few more mugs and I might actually be warm again.

      We spend the next half-hour chatting about pointless things while we wait for the rest of the crew to get back in. As we talk, my heart lifts a little from its perch near the floor, and I breathe just a little easier. Once I get off this fucking planet, maybe I have a shot at becoming a real person again. The potatoes are gone now, they’re probably shoved in the MAV by now. But I can still see where they used to sit. After all, I think, letting myself hope just a little, I’ve made more impossible things happen here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, dialogue really makes these chapters long. I'm going to try to write slightly shorter sols from now on so we get to see Watney leave the planet sometime this century. I'm not super happy with how the second half is written, so I might go back and re-work it at some point.
> 
> The most implausible thing in this chapter is that a Francophone from Quebec (which produces 70% of the world's maple syrup) could ever, possibly, forget how to say sirop d'érable.


	24. Time to get up.

Log Entry: Sol 1429 

      Dear diary, did you miss me?  I know I kind of left you hanging there, waiting for Ares 4 to fucking show.  ...shit I just realized this’ll probably be turned into a movie or something, I should prolly swear less.

      ...nah.

      The point is, I’m back, baby!  After a series of very annoying stretches (everything is pain) and brief instructions on how crutches work in reduced gravity, I was finally, _FINALLY_ allowed to get up.  Liam was right after all, my right knee is basically fine.  The left knee still hurts like capitalism, but I can sort of hobble slowly around the Hab, which is a huge improvement.  I still can’t really _do_ anything, but it sure as heck beats lying around.  Now I can annoy people whenever I want! And if they get sick of me they can just go outside, I ain’t following them there.

      It’s weird how much just being able to move around improves my mood.  I feel like someone who’s finally going outside after holing up in a stuffy apartment for a week.  I can’t imagine how excited I’ll be if I get back to Earth and get to breathe _actual air._

      Liam fashioned me a sort of knee brace out of some random metal bits and velcro.  Apparently NASA didn’t think they’d be able to fuck up badly enough to need a brace, since they didn’t send one.  Can’t really bring a whole hospital with you, I guess. But it’s cool, I get to be stylish. I even convinced Liam to let me put decorative emergency ribbons on it.  Lime green’s really growing on me.

      The first thing I did after regally nodding to the applause (can’t quite manage a bow yet) was sort of drift towards the left side of the Hab.  Why you ask?  Why, I asked too.  I stopped right in front of Sim’s table and looked down and I couldn’t figure out why there was an anxious knot in my stomach.  Then I realized I was subconsciously looking for green. This is where I used to keep the ferns. I actually laughed out loud at my ingrained determination to save my own ass.  First steps in weeks and my body’s immediate response is ‘go check on your ferns, you moron, let’s go, let’s go, you need your muscles for the drive!’. The rest of the crew just looked so relieved to see me laughing finally that they didn’t ask why, so I didn’t even have to explain myself.

      Life is good, as of this second.  I have people, and sort of food, and the ability to hobble/walk.  I’ve even officially been cleared for lightly caffeinated teas. Martinez gently reminded me that I haven’t written anyone back yet (no pressure though, dude), so I’m thinking of writing my parents later.  For now though, I’ve got five people’s worth of experiments to read (Martinez, as usual, doesn’t do anything). Some of these look really interesting, it makes me curious to know what sort of advancements society’s made while I was away.  Fingers crossed for flying cars.

      Things are looking up.  They’re not great, but they’re definitely higher off the floor than they used to be.  Although I still can’t fucking sleep. Not out of concern for Ares 4, Liam drilled it into me that my sleep takes priority (something about my weak as shit body) and that anyway they have earplugs.  It’s just that...you ever sleep over at a friend’s house, and as you’re half asleep on the floor there’s this moment where you forget you’re not at home? My home is the Hab now, apparently. At Acidalia Planitia.  And every time I’m about to fall asleep and there’s like...a single grain of sand that pings the wall, I shoot right the fuck awake because _what’s wrong with the dirt shield that noise shouldn’t be there._  It’s especially worrying because my Hab is going on 46 months past its expiration date, and by rights it should have depressurized several times already instead of just the once.  So yeah, it’s an itty bit hard to sleep when you’re convinced you’re going to blow up.

      But y’know, besides that, I’m okay.  Today. As long as I don’t think too hard about certain things like my recent past or uncertain future.

      So I got in a good solid 20 minutes of hobbling around before getting tired.  Liam’s telling me not to push it, but I know (from Beck’s stupid medical journals) what too much lying around can do to a person.  And it’s not even just physical. I had goals before. I thought I’d feel better when I accomplished them, and met up with...y’know, other lifeforms.  And I did, for the first few sols. But then everyone had to keep going about their jobs, and I was just lying there like a lump. When all your days are empty, depression hits you _hard._  And I was completely blindsided by it, because really I should be happy now, so then I start berating myself for not feeling the right feelings, and everything just gets worse.  I had a good long break where I just sat there feeling sorry for myself, but If I keep it up I’m seriously going to die here.

      I don’t want to die out here.

      So screw doctor’s orders, I’m gonna get up if I want to.  Yeah, yeah, I see your faceless frown of disapproval. Tough shit.  I do what I want.

      Good talk.

Sol 14 

Rick Martinez

      Martinez breathed a quiet sigh of relief as the airlock repressurized without incident.  It’s not the sort of thing he used to worry about, but Watney’s constant insistence that Mars was out to get them (often swearing at the planet under his breath) was finally starting to get to him.

      He stepped through the inner door into the Hab and looked automatically for his friend, finding him sitting with Félix at one of the lab tables.  Watney was smiling at something and gesturing to some specimen or other while he asked questions about the experiment. Guiltily, Martinez realized that he didn’t actually know all that much about the research they were supposed to be doing.   _I had other priorities,_ he told himself, not quite buying his own excuse.

      He hung back and watched them for a moment, enjoying seeing Watney a bit more alert and interested in his surroundings, but still less...worryingly euphoric than he’d been yesterday.  For a guy just starting to come back from the brink of starvation, he could sure move fast. Martinez had been so sure Watney was going to trip on something and break a bone that he’d stayed within arms reach of him for the entire 20-odd minutes he was up.

      He seemed calmer now, looking almost relaxed, if not for the bags under his eyes and the way he was stiffly avoiding leaning forward too far.

      Martinez shook himself out of his reverie and strode towards them, determined to keep that smile up just a little longer.

      “You kids having fun?” he teased, dragging a chair closer and plopping down in it.  He dropped a hand casually over the side of the chair and turned slightly so it was hidden from view.

      “What could be more fun than two botanists talking about science,” Félix asked sincerely.  “I was telling Mark about our root pressure experiment. He’s got some good ideas, I think his hypothesis is better than mine.”

      “Nerds,” Martinez smiled fondly.

      “You’re just mad you don’t get to discover cool new stuff,” Watney sniffed haughtily, waggling a project outline at him.  

      Martinez sat up straighter, right hand clutching his find tighter.  He smirked, staring Watney dead in the eye. “That’s what you think,” he raised his eyebrows in challenge.

      The botanists shared a look of quiet befuddlement.  Félix ruffled his hair before shrugging. “I thought you were just out assisting Nicole with the rovers today,” he asked, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

      “Nope,” he grinned, hiding his hand further behind the chair.  Watney noticed, craning his neck a little and squinting behind him suspiciously.  “I was out taking pictures of the Ares 3 rovers, and making sure we didn’t leave any historical artifacts behind in them.”

      Watney put the outline down on the table, folded his hands together and slowly spun his chair so he was facing Martinez directly.  “Alright, what did you find? If it’s the shovel-guitar, keep in mind, I was really bored.”

      “Nah, we noticed that the first time we went in there,” Martinez said, drawing out the suspense.   _I bet he’s forgotten all about this thing,_ he thought.  “What I really wanted to ask you about was this,” he grinned, whipping the photo into view for all to see.

      “MARTINEZ!” Watney exclaimed loudly.  His eyes widened, something like shock and sorrow flashing across his face for an instant.  He leaned forward as much as he could without hurting himself, tightly gripping the armrests of his chair.

      Martinez leaned back a little, startled by the reaction.  It was just a photo.

      Félix glanced at him, worried, but let the scene play out.

      “Yeah,” Martinez said, holding the cutout of himself up next to his face.  “I’m flattered dude, but I would’ve made a way cuter alien in pink.”

      “No, I…” his eyes stared watering, his lip trembled slightly.  Watney raised an arm over his eyes, took a deep breath and laughed wetly.  “I mean...MARTINEZ,” he repeated, reaching both arms out towards the photo.  “Martian Martinez, I thought he was lost forever when the Hab decompressed, _where did you find him?!_ ”

      Ice dropped down the back of his neck and Martinez froze, smile still stretched over his face.  The Hab did what? His heart squeezed as he looked at his friend, so desperately happy to see this tattered old photo that he looked like he might cry any second.  “What happened to the Hab,” he asked carefully, handing over his green counterpart when Watney made grabby hands.

      “Oh nothing,” he answered flippantly, inspecting the photo closely.  “Just exploded a little. Could’ve been worse. Do you have a paperclip?  Martian Martinez is missing one. You really found this in the rover? I looked _everywhere._ ”

      “Jesus Christ is that all,” he whistled, staring at Watney incredulously.  What the hell else didn’t they know about?

      “Must have gotten caught on my boot or something,” Watney muttered.  “Seems unlikely.”

      Félix leaned over to Sim’s table and rifled around for a second before producing a paperclip and handing it over.  Watney took it, placing it reverently next to the other one on the photo, completing the look. “This is coming back to Earth with us,” he insisted quietly, turning the photo around so they can see it and holding it against his chest like a proud father.

      There was a story there, Martinez thought, and it was not a happy one.  But he refused to be the one to ruin Watney’s good mood, so he filed it away as something to ask about later.  His eyes drifted over the photo, noting the way it had been carefully coloured so the lines all went the same way.

      “Alright dude,” he agreed, lifting his eyes to meet Watney’s shining ones.  “But if Marissa leaves me to be with Martian me, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

      Watney laughed loudly, the scratchy sound filling the Hab.  “Don’t put yourself down like that man,” he grinned, flicking his wrist to make the photo dance around.  “This thing isn’t even three-dimensional. Marissa would never leave you.”

      “Are you kidding,” he threw a hand over his forehead dramatically.  “Look at that perfectly toned green body. How can I possibly compete with that?”

      “Play her a song?” Félix chimed in bemusedly.

      Watney’s eyes lit up.  “Yeah, that’s perfect! Play her some of your crappy emo music!  Woo her with Chemicals and Romance!”

      “Yep, that didn’t sound creepy at all.  Thanks for the advice. How’s your love life going again?”

      “Stellar,” he deadpanned.  “Romantic love is overrated.  That said, if you pick the right song to play her, you’ll really light _A Fire Inside.”_

      “Holy shit, you really did listen all of them, didn’t you?” Martinez laughed, shaking his head in pity.

      “J’comprends rien de ce qui se passe,” Félix mumbled, leaning against an arm and looking between them in exasperation.

      “I need a good streaming service like you wouldn’t believe,” Watney sighed, eyes drifting off into the distance.  After a moment he shook himself and flipped the photo back towards him. He stared at it, an unreadable expression on his face.

      Martinez snorted.  “I’ll see what we can do when we get a little closer to civilisation.”

      “I’d give you mine, but it’s all french music,” Félix said apologetically.

      Watney was still smiling down at the photo in his hands.  He shrugged, not pulling his eyes up. “Yeah, but it’s Quebec french, right?  So it’s like...half english? I’ll take it.”

      That earned him a laugh and a promise to bring him some by later.

      As Martinez observed his friend, so touched, so moved by being given an old photo that he’d clearly grown attached to somehow, it really hit him for the first time that Watney had been through _some shit._  It dawned on him that he hadn’t just been bored, or working obscenely hard, or fighting for his life.  He’d also been so thoroughly alone that he’d had to cling to any shred of evidence that reminded him that he was human, that there were others like him, and that somewhere in the universe, he had friends.

      Martinez swallowed against the lump in his throat.  Well. His friends were here now. He didn’t have to rely on photos and plants for company.

      ...He’d make sure Watney knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, so that was a longer break between chapters than I intended. Happy Halloween! Hope you all wear fun costumes and eat too much candy.
> 
> The Martian Martinez scene was something I was originally going to put in an earlier chapter, but it didn't really fit with the flow of the story. And my original plan for sol 1430 was kind of boring, so here ye go.


	25. Losing count

Log Entry: Sol 1433 

      Every time I go to write a log entry, I have to look up the date of the previous one and calculate how long I’ve been here.  1433 sols. That’s how long. And that’s not even counting the hundred plus mission days to get here. 1433 sols. The number feels like a punch to the gut.  It doesn’t feel that long. But it feels longer. I feel like an old man. But I feel like a needy child. Time has folded in and in on itself like an origami crane, and I sit in the middle, confused.  Fucking 1433 sols. 15 more sols. Then I stop counting. Just 15 more sols, Watney.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1434 

      Liam gets this annoying little look of approval every time I open someone’s laptop to write a log.  They won’t let me use the ones from Ares 3; something about there not being enough disinfectant in the universe for them to feel comfortable bringing it in the Hab, and also they could break at any second from the abuse I put them through.  Anyway, he gets all pleased, like I’m taking his advice and like...recovering, or something. But that’s not why I’m doing this. It’s not to get out all my innermost feelings. It’s to try to cling to the present.

      I spent three hours today just staring into space.  Not even thinking anything, just flat out...bzzzzz in my brain, eyes unfocused, body detached from mind.  Even when Nicole came over to pester me to get up and walk around, I didn’t really feel present. Like I was a videogame character being controlled by a ghost.  An old videogame character. With no face, made of pixels. Every now and then I glitch back into existence and then back out. Sim came to talk to me a bunch of times and I don’t even remember what about, or what I said.  I must have been convincing though, because no one’s hovering.

      Doing this doesn’t...bring me back, exactly.  But it does make me pay a bit more attention, for a while.  Like when you’re super tired and it’s late but you’re trying to study, only you’re just rereading the same paragraph over and over.  And then you tell yourself to stop it and focus, and for like a few sentences you’re actually taking in words. But your eyes are still burning and you’re brain is burnt out and there’s a 50/50 chance of you forgetting it the next day.  But 50/50 is still better than nothing, so I gotta take it.

      Not that there’s much to remember.  I laid in bed, mostly. I guess I walked around.  Sim showed me some of the new Hab equipment and I had a minor panic attack.  That’s what Liam said, anyway. Why the fuck does new stuff make me panic? Because I don’t know how it works.  Which used to be cool, like oh, here’s a new thing I can learn about. And if I can’t figure it out, maybe it was made by wizards!  Magic is real, I fucking knew it! But now...not knowing how things work means I’m fucked if it breaks. I won’t know how to fix it.  Bits of me keep forgetting that I’m not the only one here, and other people could probably fix it for me. It wasn’t even important equipment.  Not even worth dragging to Ares 5. Just kidding, I’ll die before I stay here that long. ...I might anyway.

      14 more sols.  Consider this my two week’s notice, Mars.  I quit.

 

Sol 1435 

      Fuck.  Shit fuck damn.  Sorry. Fuck. The winds are really strong today.  Or maybe it just seems that way because I can hear it.  I miss my dirt shield. Damn it was a pain to set up, but I miss it.  Nicole assures me that the Hab can take it. Sim and Martinez swear up and down that the MAV is nowhere near tipping.  Kim promises that NASA’s even more jumpy about safety this time around and they have orders to leave at the slightest hint of danger.  They haven’t received orders, so everything’s fine. Liam’s taken my blood pressure six times today already and frowns every time.

      “Fuck.”  I keep pacing the same triangle; the plants, the main control console, the broken airlock.  If my hastily glued-on patch rips, I’m fucked. My feet hurt from hobbling around so much. My knee is throbbing, despite the crutches.  I’m tracking Hab dirt all over the place. ...no, I’m not. There’s no dirt here, Watney. No broken airlock. Focus, focus.

      “Hey there,” a hand connects with my reality and I turn to it, Liam’s worried face looking out of place next to the ferns and sandcastles and green emergency ribbon.  “It’s gonna be okay, Mark,” he lies. Five out of focus people float vaguely behind him.

      “Uh-huh.”  My body hobbles towards the broken airlock.  I wonder how solidly the satellite dish is attached.

      “Mark,” Liam’s voice knocks insistently on the door to my panicked mind.  “Sit. Now. Before you hurt yourself.”

      I hobble to the ferns, but someone has replaced them with lab tables.  I scowl at them. The winds howl. The Hab was never meant to last this long.

      “Alright, I think you might be having some sort of flashback,” I hear over the intercom.

      Let me check the systems again.

      I turn to face the console, but something pushes me into a chair, and pulls the crutches from my hands.  I stare at my hands, dumbfounded. They’re shaking.

      “Here, hold this.”  Something furry is pressed into my hands.  I don’t remember anyone having a sweater like this.  It’s clean. I don’t remember anything being clean, either.

      “Touch it, Mark.  Look at it. Wherever you may think you are, you are here with us.”

      I look at the fuzzy thing, two black circles in a bed of white.  Eyes.

      Fuck.  I squeeze my eyes shut and press Ollie to my face.

      I can still see the broken airlock.

      I can still feel the antenna.

      Today _sucks._

 

Log Entry: Sol 1436 

      Everyone keeps hovering.  I hate it. Time was I would’ve given anything to have people around to hover.  But hovering people want to talk, and I just want to listen.

      I feel like it’s time I write back Ares 3, finally.  Feel kind of guilty that I haven’t done it yet, and I’m slowly running out of reasons not to.  But the constant sound of footsteps up to my bed, and the ‘Hey Mark, how’s it going?’ ‘check out this thing, Watney’ ‘look how the soil’s doing’ is making me too jittery to actually write anything.  So instead I’ve been watching cartoons. For three hours.

      Liam came over at one point and asked me about my plans for the future.  And I just gave him a look. How am I supposed to plan for the future? I don’t even know if I’m going to have a future.  Even if I make it back, I don’t know what state my body’s going to be in, let alone my mind. And yeah, I should probably start thinking about it, because you know all the reporters are gonna be like ‘what’s next for Mark Watney?’ and I should try to have an answer, or something.  But it’s hard to care. Why should I put all this work planning for a future that might not happen?

      So I just kind of answered with an I dunno.  But there was a looong silence between his question and my answer, so he might have figured something was up.  Instead he gave me, I shit you not, homework. Not ‘where do you see yourself in five years’ homework, thank _god,_ but rather ‘design your dream garden’ homework.  This is a transparent attempt to give me something to look forward to.  Not even a little subtle there, Liam. This from the guy who a mere two weeks ago was telling me it’ll be forever before they let me step foot in a garden again. But the assignment is actually kind of fun, so I’m considering doing it out of boredom.

      Félix offered some drawing supplies (because it’s a small Hab, so everyone hears everything), but I can’t draw for shit, so I declined.  Then he gave me the ‘you just need practise’ line that every artist ever will give you when you try to tell them that you’re not good at the thing they’re good at.  I’m not gonna start practising now. But I was thinking of opening like...a spreadsheet, where I could ‘plant’ stuff in different colours. Make a pixel garden. It’s kind of a pointless exercise, since I don’t even know where I’m gonna be living, let alone how much gardening space I’m gonna have, but it’s fun to think about anyway.  It’s gonna be huge, I think. I’ll have to make sure to put in sprinklers. Might need like… a team to take care of it.

      Ohhh man, there’s gonna be little lakes and streams everywhere.  I want to be able to see water wherever I go. Yeah, this is definitely not gonna fit in my backyard.  Could have a scenic little pond with different coloured flowers here, a vegetable garden here, a small orchard...hm...

      I hate that I’m actually enjoying this assignment.  I don’t want to give the shrinks at NASA the satisfaction of being right about something.  I’m already kind of mad their dumb potato idea saved my life. I’m gonna have to buy them beer and pizza.  They’re gonna get big heads if they keep this up.

      Right, don’t forget to put benches everywhere for your old man body.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1437 

;;;;;iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiialjfdzkvm

 

Sol 1438 

      “Hey Mark, how are you doing today?” Liam’s formal doctor voice floats over as he sits down next to me.  Beck never used to be this stiff. I miss him.

      My tired eyes are able to focus somewhat today, and he seems a bit relieved at the eye contact.  He’s got his laptop open again. Takin’ notes on the resident basketcase. I shrug in answer to his question.

      “You were kind of out of it yesterday,” he observes, spinning his chair casually.  Liam never spins his chair. He’s just doing this to see if my eyes follow him or stay in one place.  Subtle.

      “Yeah, I don’t really remember yesterday,” I admit.  My voice is all scratchy again. “Did anything good happen?”

      He stops spinning and smiles.  “All kinds of fun science stuff, we could have really used your input.”

      Yeah.  Right. I don’t even know what some of your equipment does.  “Sure.”

      “Alright, I’m feeling some skepticism here,” he says, closing his laptop and leaning back a bit.  “But we really do miss you when you’re gone. You’ve no idea how good you are for morale. We like having you around, and...present.”

      “Are you saying I’m like...your mascot or something?”  I guess there are worse things to be. Doesn’t make me feel terribly useful, but ok.

      His eyes light up, and he nods.  “Not even just our mascot, you’re the mascot of space exploration.  Of humanity’s perseverance. It’s beautiful. Even when all hope was lost and there was no chance for survival and no real reason to keep going, you kept fighting, just to see how far you could go.  And then you made it. When we finally make contact with alien life, and they want to know who we are as a species, are we kind, are we brave, are we hardworking...the world is gonna point to you.”

      I can feel my face turn red.  I look away, embarrassed. Sim and Félix are both in the Hab, Kim, Martinez and Nicole outside somewhere.  Félix glances up from his work and waves, pointing with a grin at how long the roots of his cornflower are getting.  Sim (who’d been staring blank-faced at his laptop like I was yesterday) stands up abruptly and starts skipping towards us.  Half-way here, he stops, detours to the kitchen to pull out a health-drink from the fridge and comes back towards us to sit on the floor next to Liam.

      “Sorry it’s not a pizza,” he says, looking genuinely remorseful as he hands over the drink.

      I take it with a sigh.  “It’s okay.”

      “Glad to have ye back,” he grins.  “When ye’ve finished that we should get up and have a lovely little walk around the hab.  Just to take in the scenery, have a wee chat with the locals.”

      I raise an eyebrow, taking a sip of the drink.  Blueberry.

      “Oh yes,” I turn my head slowly and let my eyes sweep dramatically over the Hab.  It’s all white and grey and navy blue. Everything is plastic or metal or composite canvas material.  The only spot of colour is the lime green emergency ribbon wrapped around my makeshift knee brace, and I can’t even see it because it’s under a blanket.  It’s always freezing in here.

      I look back at Sim.  “Such majestic scenery.  Really worth getting up for.”

      “Aye, tha’s the spirit!” he exclaims, slapping his knee and looking at me proudly.  I forgot he was immune to sarcasm.

      “It is a good idea to get up and walk around,” Liam chimes in, looking faintly amused.  “You missed out on exercise yesterday, and we’ve only got ten days before we lift off. Which reminds me, I’ve got some safety procedures to go over with you later.  It’s a bit of an unusual flight, since you’ll be sitting in a home-made chair in the middle.” He frowns at the thought.

      “I installed it, so ye know it’s safe to ride in,” Sim puffs up his chest.  “I’d sit in it meself only mission control says I need to be able to reach the levers in case of emergency.”

      My neck prickles at the thought of trusting a rover seat to carry me off the planet.  But it’s only fair that I’m the one to sit in it. I am the hitchhiker here after all.  Some of my skepticism must have shown on my face, because Liam quickly tries to reassure me.

      “They installed a fair bit of extra padding to support your back,” he explains.  “And gravity’s going to be doing most of the work holding you in it, but they put straps to use as seat belts.”

      “We couldn’t quite manage a buckle,” Sim admits, ruffling his hair sheepishly.  “So the plan is to glue them shut with resin and then cut ye free when we get to the Hermes.  It’s not the most elegant solution, but there’s no doubt it will work.”

      I sip at the drink, mind going back to all the patchwork, glued together solutions to the problems I faced.  I’ve lost count of how many times that resin saved my life. Every idea that led me to be here today had me misusing equipment and finding lazy ways to fix things because I didn’t have the right materials.  It’s only fitting that I should leave this planet on a mismatched chair in the trunk of a spaceship. Like the afterthought that I am.

      Sim must have mistaken my pensiveness for nerves, because he suggests we play games to get my mind off things.

      “Did you finish your reports?” Liam asks with a raised eyebrow.

      Sim looks away guiltily.  “Em. Mostly?”

      Liam shakes his head with an exaggerated sigh.

      “In my defence, they’re really boring,” he explains.

      “It doesn’t really matter,” I shrug.  “My coordination isn’t really up to video games right now anyway.”

      Sim sits up straighter and looks at me, effectively shutting out Liam’s disappointed parent look.

      “Oh, I was thinking more road trip games, like ‘fortunately unfortunately’.  Do ye know it?”

      I shake my head and silently hope it doesn’t involve singing.

      “So one person says something good, like…’fortunately the weather is great today’.  And then the next person turns it bad, by saying something like…’unfortunately I came out here to study catastrophic weather events’.  And then the next person turns it into a good thing, and it goes back and forth and so on.”

      “Oh word games, alright.”

      “And then the reports, right?” Liam says, setting his laptop to the side.

      Sim pulls a face.  “Aye, sure alright.  Who do you want to start, Mark?”

      I gesture towards him.

      “Alrighty.  Fortunately, Liam says you’ll be graduating to solid food when we get to the Hermes.”

      I’ve been told this too.  Can’t wait. But…”Unfortunately, it’s gonna be tasteless dehydrated food.”

      Sim and I look at Liam to see if he’s playing.  He resists for a moment, but ultimately gives in.  Probably wants to encourage me engaging with people or something.

      “Fortunately, it’s going to give you more energy to move around.”

      “Unfortunately,” Félix calls from the lab tables, “there’s not a lot of space to move around _in.”_

      Sim laughs at the unexpected participant.  “Aye, but fortunately the space we do have is full of interesting buttons and science things.”

      “Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to press the button or do the science things,” I grouse.

      “Fortunately,” Liam reminds me, “that will give you the time you need to relax and get better.”

      “Unfortunately, you’ll also have lots of time to focus on how bored you are,” Félix said, peering at a slide under his microscope.

      “Fortunately, you’ve got us to entertain you,” Sim grinned.

      “Unfortunately, you’ve all got your own lives and can’t always goof off with me.  Which I totally get, by the way, it’s fine.”

      Liam slides his chair closer to me.  “Fortunately, you’re part of our lives now, too.”

      I swallow against the lump in my throat.

      “Unfortunately,” Félix looks up from his microscope to make eye contact with me.  “You’ll never be rid of us, even if we start to get really annoying.”

      Sim is fairly beaming.  “Fortunately we are not annoying too often.  I think.”

      “Unfortunately, I _am_ annoying,” I caution.  I’m not completely oblivious to how big a pain I am to take care of.

      “Fortunately, that’s your mental illness talking, and the result of four years of stress and isolation,” Liam says gently, placing a hand on my shoulder.  “And you’re actually not annoying at all.”

      Félix has completely stopped working.  “Unfortunately it’s gonna be un crisse de travail recovering from it.”

      Sim leans forward, cupping his grinning face and resting his elbows on the edge of the bed.  “Fortunately, you’ve got eleven brilliant scientists from two different missions to help you with it.  And we’ll always be here to tell you when your brain is talking out its fanny flaps.”

      I can’t think of a good retort for that one.  I think that means I lose. I swipe my eyes as they all smile at me.  Somehow I feel a little less cold.

      These nerds...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahahaoops. So November was ridiculously busy for me and December is kind of the same. Sorry for the lack of updates. I promise I haven't abandoned this fic, it's just taking longer to write than I thought it would. Stay tuned for more chapters. Um...at some point. Only ten more days! You can do it Watney!


	26. And the planet blew up behind him.

Sol 1441 

    The Martian went about his daily routine.  He typed on a borrowed laptop. He drank health drinks.  He hobbled around on crutches and made an appearance to the world.

    It was an anxious sort of day.  Seven sols to lift off, and he'd been lectured for the third time on safety procedures, as though they thought he wasn't listening the first two times.  He hadn't been. In truth, he didn't really believe it would happen. They would leave without him, he was sure. But he was glad to have seen them before he died.  He tried to keep up the pretense and pay attention, but found he couldn't.

    Years of living in fear of the unknown and its associated dangers left him anxious about many things.  To try to counteract this, he counted things. How much water. How much resin. How much spare canvas.  How much oxygen. He did not count food. He did not think about food. He told himself that he did not think about food, when in fact, he thought about it a great deal.  He often caught himself staring at the fridge, as though he could see through it, and wondered nervously how much was in it. Was it enough? How long would it last them if something went wrong?  ...was it any good? He did not think about food.

    He had by now counted everything visible to him.  He knew exactly how many backup oxygen tanks and spare batteries and replacement suit parts were in the Hab.  He could tell you without batting an eye how many petri dishes Kim had on her lab table and how many of them were occupied.  He even knew, though he'd die before admitting it, exactly how many potatoes he had left. He'd carefully counted them before they were carted away, and knew how long they would last him.  They would last him the rest of his life. Because he would never eat one again.

    Having taken inventory of everything clearly visible, he'd taken to opening random drawers to see what was in them.  He'd learned to stay away from the med area, when he'd opened a drawer once to reveal assorted painkillers and what appeared to be every sharp object NASA sent them.  He was instantly surrounded by half the crew casually asking how he was doing. He pretended not to know why the wire cutters were in the same drawer as the scalpels, and the crew did the same.  The drawer was closed, and never touched again, but the Martian took special care to remember which one it was.

    Today he was in the kitchen area, counting cutlery, napkins, and very off-limits coffee packets.  He opened a drawer, idly counted what was inside, and closed it. He did the same to the next, then opened one more, and stopped.

    He stood, frozen, as though he were a statue carved from the stones that littered the planet.  Intricate lines decorated his face, marking the places where fear and weariness visited. Staring, the Martian grappled with memories and feelings he'd not quite forgotten, and promises he'd made to himself.

    "Oh."

    The past overlapped with the present and static filled his limbs as he lifted a hand and reached into the drawer.  From it he pulled the object of his focus. A small, white rectangle, made of plastic. On it, an illustration of a common red salad ingredient.  In it, ketchup. Numb and wide-eyed, he took it in. The zig-zag edges of the packaging. The way the shape changed when he squished it. A desperate reason to live.  His eyes drifted back down to the drawer, which housed another 59 identical packets. His breath hitched and his eyes welled up.

    "Oh."

    Never had a common household condiment looked so beautiful.

    Maybe, he thought reflexively, he'd live a while longer.

    He reached in and pulled out another four packets, and with a long last look, he closed it.  Blinking away tears, he grabbed at his crutches and carefully rearranged the ketchup packets between his fingers so as not to crush them.  He hobbled back to his bed, and to the bedside table which housed Martian Martinez. After sitting and leaning his crutches somewhere he could reach, he stashed his treasure behind the photo.  Just in case, he told himself. Just in case.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1441 

    What does it say about me that I take more comfort from having a handful of fucking ketchup packets than I do from other people?  It’s not a discussion I want to have with the others. My hiding spot is not very good, but I’m hoping societal politeness will stop them from asking about it.

    It feels good just to have something.  I don’t own anything anymore. My clothes have been long since ruined, and my laptop confiscated.  I could kill myself for not having brought photos. Even Martian Martinez is borrowed. Everything I have now is borrowed.  If I’d thought to, I would have brought my mug from Ares 3, just so I could point at it and go ‘this is mine’.

    Mom says they sold off most of my clothes and things.  Too many memories, and there was no reason to keep them, aside from a few odds and ends they couldn’t bring themselves to get rid of.  They donated the money. Even my plants were carted off to the University of Chicago. Probably just as well. My parents are not great gardeners.  I’m gonna have to build a whole new wardrobe when I get back. Good opportunity to change my style, I guess. Could change everything. I own nothing.

    So anyway I have this ketchup.  And it’s mine. This is a thing that is mine and I own, and it feels nice.  ...I mean technically I just took it, but who’s gonna miss it. ...I’m gonna have to be careful not to make this a thing.  Don’t become a hoarder, Watney. Every piece of media you’ve ever consumed that had a starving person in it had them like...stashing away table scraps and hiding them.  That’s how you get insects. ...that’s not what this is. I just need...something. And that something is ketchup. Or maybe ketchup is just a barely adequate substitute.  Christ, now I’m analysing myself. Screw it. I don’t need a reason.

    One more week and this ketchup won’t even matter.  I’ll either die or rise to better and greater heights (ha?).  Definitely one of those. Maybe both. ...hopefully not both.

 

Sol 1443 

    “And then, wee Alpin decides to try out our new camping saw on the bunk bed.   _While_ Lyall is in it it,” Sim mimics a sawing motion, eyes shining.  “and since it was new and sharp it was right perfect for sawing through the leg of the bed.”

    “Oh no,” Kim laughs helplessly, slinking down in her seat and covering her eyes with her hands.  Sim nods emphatically and takes a sip of his hot chocolate.

    Irene Shields and Dan Carris (the Ares 4 psychiatrist) were conspiring to make us all get along better, and bullied the higher ups to give everyone a few extra hours off in the interests of getting to know each other.  Which is why we’re all crowded around my bed telling funny stories. Two hours of mostly listening. No talk of Mars, no talk of the future, no ‘how do you feel Mark’s or ‘explain this thing we found’s or ‘you’re quiet today’s.  Just fun, slightly embellished stories of the past, seen through a somewhat rosy lens. It’s perfect.

    I sip my small hot chocolate too.  It’s a rare treat to get on Mars, even rarer when you’re under the care of an overprotective doctor.  But I was a good boy who put up with another blood test, stretches, and a thirty minute walk around the Hab, so I got hot chocolate.  It’s a welcome change from tea and weird chemical health drink.

    “What happened?” I ask, as the others try to control their laughter for the conclusion.

    “Aye right,” Sim straightens, holding his hands out like a magician about to pull his favourite trick. “So Lyall’s on the bed, reading comics the cheeky lad, totally oblivious to his impending disaster.  Alpin’s about halfway through the leg by now and Shona, bless her monstrous little heart, having pulled everything off the bookshelf, is now trying to climb it to reach her mother’s music box. Meanwhile I’ve got my hands full trying to get the fire extinguisher to shut off, still holding the icing bag, by the way, so that’s getting all over the floor, and the dog is going absolutely mental.  The only coherent thought in my head besides sheer _panic_ at this point is that my wife, who trusted me with our kids, is absolutely, 100%, going to kill me dead.”

    He pauses for effect and we lean in a bit, waiting.  He looks us in the eye, one by one, a faint hint of terror still visible on his face, and continues in a hushed tone.  “Her key is in the door. The fire alarm is still ringing and I have _no_ chance of playing this off.  My life flashed before my eyes.  She steps in, arms full of groceries and stops dead.  Alpin finishes ‘testing’ the camping saw and one corner of the bed just drops a foot and a half to the ground.  Luckily Lyall doesn’t fall out, but the impact is enough to startle Shona, who was halfway up the bookshelf. So she falls to the floor.  Not hurt, but she was screaming bloody murder, even louder than the alarm.”

    “Oh shit,” Martinez says, “I thought my kids were mischievous.”

    “Your poor wife,” Nicole moans, hands on her face.  “She was gone like two hours, man.”

    Sim laughs sheepishly.  “What can I say. I quietly make my peace with the world and prepare myself for death.  Donna McKinley, love of my life, just puts down the groceries calmly, says ‘oh, I forgot eggs’, and turns right around to leave.  Fire extinguisher’s finally out, but the dog slips on the foam and the icing and crashes into the double doors, knocking one of them off its hinges.  The woman straight up _runs_ to the car, and I cannae really blame her.  I have no’ tried to surprise her by baking her a cake since."

    “She must certainly have been surprised by it,” Félix notes, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

    Nicole wrinkles her nose.  “From the sound of it I’m not sure even calling it a cake would hold up in a court of law.”

    “I know, I’m sorry I won’ do it again,” Sim exclaims, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation while simultaneously looking oddly pleased with himself.  “Anyway, that’s my bit. Which leaves…” he looks around, and his eyes land on me. “Jus’ you, Mark.”

    Um.  Wait.  I have to do a story?

    Everybody’s looking at me, excited to hear a fun tale from my youth.  Martinez is leaning back smugly because he knows all the good ones already.  Yeah. Yeah, sure, I have lots of good stories. You got this, Watney, which one are you going to tell?

    “Uh…”

    Sim’s already got a big smile on his face, ready to laugh at just about anything.  Pick a story, Watney. How about...how about that time...uh…

    I’m wracking my brain, trying to come up with something.   _Anything._  But all I can think about is stuff from Mars.  And even the funny stuff is sad. No, come on. You were a kid once, what did you do?  I’m drawing a blank.

    How about that time you listened to that one song on repeat for like a whole day?  Drove everyone crazy. _No, that was on Mars.  Johanssen’s fucking Beatles music.  Hey Jude. That was a bad day. It drove the ghosts crazy._  Or- or how about the time you left the window open in the winter?  So that it would snow indoors and you could make a snowman without going outside?   _That was Mars.  That was Mars when I didn’t leave my blanket fort for two days and I convinced myself it was snowing and I pulled some of the Hab dirt to the other side the mattress wall and made a pile._  That time you decorated the whole house with really ugly liquidation Christmas ribbons and refused to take it down?   _Mars._  The time you broke the front door and just taped it back together hoping no one would notice?   _For fuck’s sake you know that happened here, think, Watney._

    The silence is getting awkward now.  I flash them a smile so they know that everything’s fine and I’m just trying to find them a really good one.  I run a hand through my hair and pull on the ends. Fuck, I’m supposed to be the social one. There’s gotta be something.

    There are things I know I did.  I know I dug holes in the backyard looking for dinosaur bones.  I know I adopted/stole all of my grade 7 science teacher’s plants in the middle of the night because she wasn’t taking proper care of them.  I know when I was eight I slept with the light on for four months because I thought I could absorb the light like a flower.

    ...but I don’t _remember_ doing these things.  I know I did them, but I feel completely detached from the memory.  They might as well have happened to someone else, or in a movie, or a book I read a long time ago.  I remember scaring my parents half to death by climbing the highest tree in the North Park Village nature preserve.  But I don’t remember how the wind felt, or the chill of the autumn, or the smell of the woods, or the bark under my hands.  I remember a person in a tree. It was me. But it might as well have been someone else.

    The back of my neck is prickling.  Faint cackling carries over the breeze outside.  Kim and Liam exchange a glance. I feel like a highschooler unprepared for an oral presentation.  Here I am, without flashcards. I clear my throat.

    “You know…,” I hesitate.  All eyes on me. I turn to Martinez, hoping he’ll play along.  “Um...Martinez is a better storyteller than me. And he knows all the funny ones.”

    The silence drags on for a beat more.  But we’re not best friends for nothing.  A wave of relief washes over me as he flashes me a grin and looks at the rest of the crew.

    “Alright, listen up guys,” he crows.  “Let me tell you some little know secrets about our Mark Watney.  You might be under the impression that he’s a fairly mature, responsible kind of guy. But back when we were all going through the selection process…”

    He continues on, retelling some shenanigans we got into during training, and some of the bigger mishaps I got into when I was younger.  I sit quietly, listening carefully to him telling me about my own life. He does it well. By the time he runs out of material, the whole crew is in stitches, Félix loudly defending my honour, saying I’d never do that.

    They keep shooting me glances through their laughter, trying to picture it happening.  I smile broadly and nod as Martinez claps me on the shoulder, and try to picture it too.  I taste sand.

 

Sol 1444 

    I’m surrounded by boxes.  With four days left before they leave, the Ares 4 crew is packing up the non-essentials; the soil and rock samples, assorted experiments, and most of the more expensive equipment.  I’m sitting out of the way, watching them scurry around.

    I keep having to stop myself from telling them to leave stuff.  Don’t bother with the chem cam- you don’t need it. Do you really have room for the alpha particle spectrometer?  Fuck the chemistry and mineralogy x-ray diffraction instrument. That won’t save your life.

    Where are the bags and bags of potatoes?  Nobody’s packing food or water, and it’s making me anxious.  I nearly snap at Nicole that if she brings the Mars Hand Lens Imager there won’t be room for the oxygenator but catch myself just in time.  I can’t watch this anymore. I grab some nearby headphones and put on a random song so I don’t have to listen, open up my garden excel file, and stare at the colour-coded squares.  My hands tap a restless pattern on the laptop, trying to let my heart calm back down to the tempo of the song. Bite your tongue and picture the garden, Watney.

    It’s none of my business if they don’t pack the food.  More for me.

 

Sol 1445 

    Martinez made me write another letter to Ares 3 back home.  He didn’t sugar coat it, just said that if something happened on the way up to the Hermes I’d regret it if I hadn’t written them.  We still have the primary communication dish, but I guess if the blowback from the MAV lifting off knocks it out, I’ll have no way to talk to them.  NASA didn’t know backup comms all being tied into the MAV were an issue, so I doubt they’ve fixed it. Probably a good idea to write everyone, just in case I’m cut off again.

    I had to re-read it three times to make sure nothing I said sounded the slightest bit accusatory.  I don’t really blame them, anyway. What happened sucked, big time, but I don’t blame them. And I don’t want them to feel guilty if I never see them again.  They deserve better than that.

 

Log Entry: Sol 1446 

    Liam said I have to keep up these logs.  That I don’t have to show them to anyone (hahahahaha yeah _right_ ), but it’s good for me to have an outlet, or whatever.  Then he asked how I felt about the upcoming trip.

    ...BAD, Liam!  I feel bad, okay!  I feel bad all the time, and once in a while, on a really good day, I’ll get like five-ten minutes where I _don’t_ feel bad!  I really don’t know what you were expecting.  But other people were in the room, so I lied and said I was kind of apprehensive about it but that I’d be fine.  But there’s a rock in my chest that won’t go away.

    Mars has taken so much of my life.  Everything went wrong. And it feels...off, that nothing has exploded or stopped working or gone sideways for the Ares 4 team.  I can hear the hair-raising suspense music in the background (not literally, but I wouldn’t put it past me). It feels like Mars is saving its energy for one last fuck you before they leave, and then everyone dies.  I can’t sleep.

    I’d ask Liam for sleeping pills, but then he might ask why.  Worse, I might actually fall asleep for a while. And if something goes wrong, they might not catch it.  They won’t be looking for it. Won’t be expecting things to fuck up and go to hell. They don’t know Mars like I do.  I want them to make it.

    And I can’t sleep.

 

Sol 1447 

    This feels like a conclusion.  The Hab is empty of all things science, leaving only tables, beds, clothing and whatever equipment was too bulky or immediately essential to pack.  Even Ollie is safely strapped into the MAV. With no laptops and no more work to do, the crew’s been particularly social. I don’t mind, for once. The constant attention made it easier to try to memorize their faces, voices and mannerisms without having to stare at them like a creep.

    Dinner is over, and there’s not much time before we’re all supposed to go to sleep.  I wish I could get up and check the systems without being obvious about it (don’t you dare, don’t you _dare,_ Mars).  But with my crutches and the way my bones creak nowadays, I stick out like a sore (green) thumb.  Everyone else seems relaxed and happy though, chatting and lounging around like they’re in a renaissance painting.

    Sim gets up at the edge of my vision and saunters to the middle of the room.  Martinez follows suit. Together they walk to the lab tables at the end and turn around to face us.

    Nicole slides off her bunk with a whoop and plops back down on mine to be closer to the action.  “Speech, speech,” she encourages.

    “Speeech,” Kim echoes, tossing a pillow at Félix to get him to join in.

    They cheer as Martinez holds his hands up for silence.  Sim clears his throat and takes a step forward.

    “‘Twas the night before liftoff, and all through the Hab…,” he recites, “not a creature was stirring.  ‘Cause we packed up the lab.”

    “The samples were carted to the M.A.V,” Martinez picks up, “In hopes they get lighter up in 0g.”

    Félix snorts.  Being the expert, he’s the one who got to move the rocks and soil samples.  They were not light.

    “The crewmen were nestled all snug in their quilts,” Sim continues, “‘Cause it’s cold as blue blazes when ye’ve jus’ got a kilt.”

    “And Liam in his labcoat, and I in my shirt, can’t wait for a shower to wash off the dirt,” Martinez says.

    “Hear hear,” I mutter, earning me an amused glance from Nicole.

    “When out on the comms, there arose such a ruckus,” Sim rests a hand on Martinez’s shoulder, “That we had to tell NASA to shut the fuck up...is.”

    Martinez nods.  “Yep. Totally true,” he motions towards the main terminal, still hooked up to the comm. dish outside.  “Away to the console I casually jaunted. I opened the chatbox to see what they wanted.”

    “The moon can’t compare to the electric glow,” Sim picks up a cup of coffee he’d left on the lab table a few minutes earlier, “Of a screen reflected in a hot cup of Joe.”

    “Seriously?!  I fought you for ten minutes about making coffee this close to lights out,” Liam exclaims, “ _That’s_ why you wanted it?”

    Sim grins unrepentantly as Martinez delivers the next line.

    “When what, to my wondering eyes should appear, but a ‘you made us proud’, and ‘the skies will be clear’.”

    “That’s all we have written, we’ve written no more,” Sim shrugs.  “The poem’s too long and we’re jus’ no’ tha’ bored.”

    “From Ares to Ares,” Martinez looks at me, smiling widely, “on Mars we unite,”

    “Merry Mission to all,” shouts Sim.

    “And to all a safe flight!” they finish with a flourish, bowing to the applause.

    “You guys know it’s summer, right,” laughs Nicole.

    “Tell that to the balmy minus fifty-two bleeding degrees Celsius we’ve got today,” Sim defends.

    I’m sitting here with three blankets piled on me and I’m still freezing.  Extreme weight loss is a bitch. We have heating here, but it’s not high enough for me to really be comfortable.  I can easily believe it’s -52℃ out.

    “Bof,” Félix shrugs, unimpressed.  “I’ve seen colder in Winnipeg.”

    “Everybody knows Canada’s not a real place,” Sim sticks his tongue out at him.

    “Alright kids,” Kim interjects, “that was a beautiful performance, but we have to get to bed.  Got an early day tomorrow, and if you’re tired, NASA will still make us lift off, but I’ll get in trouble for it.”

    I don’t want them to go to bed.  There’s a familiar knot in my stomach as they break off to go to their bunks.  Sim dims the lights but leaves them on a little (Nicole talked to Liam for me), and settles in on the floor for one last night.

    Everything’s dark and quiet again.  I lie down, staring up at the Hab ceiling.  Inexplicably, I feel a sudden pang of longing for my blanket fort.  It’s hard to pretend I’m safe and okay without it. My hands tap a nervous rhythm against the blanket while my eyes adjust to the lower lighting.  I can almost make out the folds and seams in the ceiling.

    Try to sleep, Watney.

 

* * *

 

    An hour and a half later, and I’m the last kid awake at the sleepover again.  Too scared to sleep, imagining monsters in the shadows. I want to go home. Ten more minutes and I’m gonna call my parents to come pick me up.  I’m all alone with the pinprick glowing LEDs on the oxygenator and main control unit. ...hey, how come that never got shortened to MCU? Scientists are all a bunch of nerds, they should’ve jumped at the potential Marvel reference.

    The urge to get up and check the systems is stronger than ever.  Something’s gonna fuck up. I know it. We’re gonna lose pressure.  The heater will stop working. The RTG is going to leak. No, wait, they buried that again.  ...Olympus Mons is gonna erupt and fuck up the weather for the whole damn planet. If they knew what was good for them, they’d just leave now.  Don’t they understand they’re going to die?

    I sit up slowly, as quietly as I can.  My back barely twinges as I lean against the headboard, practicing my familiar creepy old man routine.  Everybody’s still breathing.

    A flash of pain stabs through my shoulders and I realize I’ve been tensing them for the last twenty minutes.  Ow. I force myself to relax, promising myself that I won’t let anything happen to Ares 4. I pull my one good knee up to my chest and hug it tiredly while not-Martinez sits beside me in solidarity.

    I’m gonna miss them.

 

Sol 1448 

Rick Martinez

    “For a guy who doesn’t own anything, you sure have a lot of luggage,” Martinez teased as he tried to decide which shirt was the cleanest and most comfortable to wear up to the Hermes.  The rest would be left behind.

    His friend gave him a strained smile and a shrug.  Something about the way he’d been distant from them all day unsettled Martinez.  This didn’t seem to be his usual zoning out; his eyes followed them everywhere, like he was afraid they’d disappear if he looked away.

    That was fine.  Watney could stare at him as much as he wanted.  After all, Martinez thought, striking a pose for his amusement, he was stunning.

    “Does this sweater make me look fat,” he pouted, batting his eyes for extra effect.

    That earned him what was probably Watney’s first genuine laugh of the week.

    “Nah, it doesn’t,” he grinned tiredly.  “It uh… brings out your eyes.”

    Martinez flashed him a smile.   _And yours,_ he thought, reveling in the spark of life in them that was absent so often lately.  He frowned as the smile dropped off Watney’s face and he went back to watching them move around, giving no indication of wanting to get up himself.  It’s like he wasn’t quite ready to leave. Surely he’s not going to _miss_ Mars, he thought to himself.  Then again, it had been his home for the last four and a-whatever years.  Lots of things had happened back on Earth in that time; technology had advanced, governments had changed, the whole world was just a bit different.  Maybe his friend was trying to cling to the last bit of the familiar before it all changed on him.

    Welp, no can do, buddy.  You’re gonna join the present like the rest of us.  Martinez puffed himself up and put on his best cheery face before grabbing a nearby marker (deemed non-essential) and heading over.

    Watney focused back on him when he held out the marker like a microphone.  “So, Mark Watney, super famous astronaut and miracle gardener, you’re about to board a rocket ship for the first time in years for an historic-seven crewmember launch off the surface of the planet Mars.  Our viewers want to know: how are you feeling?”

    The smile hadn’t come back, and Martinez mourned its loss.  Watney was staring in wide-eyed befuddlement, bags under his eyes clashing with still-gaunt cheeks.  He’d gained weight, but it wasn’t enough. The soil samples were heavier than he was, and it showed. Normally the added weight of an extra person would be huge cause for concern for the launch specialists.  But they just told them to leave behind two or three of the bigger rocks.

    “What?” he asked, wide eyed, disoriented.  Not quite ready to commit to a sentence, then.

    Nicole passed by and Martinez waved the marker at her to rope her into the conversation.

    “I’m joined now by Nicole Epps, who was among the crew that rejoined Mr. Watney on Mars.  Ms. Epps, you’re about to spend a scenic 124 days in the company of national hero Mark Watney as you travel back to Earth.  Tell us- are you feeling just a little...starstruck?” Watney didn’t even acknowledge the pun, which was worrying. He just kept staring at him.

    “Oh _absolutely,_ ” Nicole gushed, undeterred by the lack of response.  “It’s going to be a challenge focusing on work in the presence of such greatness.  But we’ll manage, we astronauts are trained to do our jobs in our sleep, and we don’t let up until the job is done, as evidenced by Mr. Watney here.  It’s such an honour to travel with him and be present when he finally makes it back home.”

    “Well there you have it folks,” Martinez spoke into the marker, “some insightful words from astronauts Mark Watney and Nicole Epps.  Stay tuned for more exclusive videos. Buy our products and see you next time!”

    They both smiled at Watney, whose expression hadn’t changed beyond his eyebrows pulling down in complete and utter bafflement.  He hadn’t blinked in like three minutes. Martinez frowned, worried.

    “Seriously, are you okay, dude?  You look like you’ve been given a broken defibrillator and told to fix it with a plastic Fisher-PriceⓇ toolkit.”

    He frowned at him, drawing his arms to his chest.  “I’m going with you?” he whispered.

    Dead silence filled the room.

    Ice filled his veins in horror that Watney had even entertained the notion that they’d leave him behind, again.  Martinez breathed sharply, heart racing. He realized abruptly that his hand was on Watney’s shoulder, gripping him too tightly, and eased back a little, but did not let go.

    “Holy _SHIT_ dude, of course you’re coming with us!  We are leaving Mars, _all_ of us.  I’d rather strand myself here than leave you again, _Jesus._ ”

    “Yeah, you don’t get a choice here, you’re coming,” Nicole stressed, just a little more under control than Martinez.  “We built you a chair and everything, and Sim would be really disappointed if no one sits in it. He’s insufferable when he’s moping, he’s like a depressed kitten, you have to come, sorry.”

    Félix, who’d been standing nearby and apparently overheard, came over and sat down on the bed to hug him.  He let go and pushed Watney gently.

    “You’ve got to come back with us, Mark.  You can’t plant that garden you were planning from here.”

    His eyes darted between the three of them, looking sad and tired and confused.  “I haven’t packed.”

    Félix barked out a laugh.  “Mark, my arms still hurt from moving your things.  Believe me, you’ve packed. Everything’s in place, except…,” he looked at the side table, and plucked Martian Martinez off it with a smile.  “This guy. I think we have room.”

    Martinez eyed the pile of ketchup that had been stashed behind the photo of himself.   _You never know,_ he thought, and pointed them out.  “Do we need to pack those too?”

    Still frowning in quiet puzzlement, Watney followed his finger to the ketchup.  “Do you have more...on the Hermes?” he asked, and picked one up carefully.

    “Yeah man, loads.”

    He put it back gently and smoothed out the wrinkles in the packaging.  “Okay.”

    “Good!  Everything’s just about good to go, you ready to suit up?  Kim’s EVA suit is about the right size for you.” It wasn’t, it was just the smallest.

    Watney looked down, frown finally disappearing.  He rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Could we uh...go over the safety procedures one more time?  I might have missed some stuff.”

    Martinez’s heart sunk in his chest.  He’d really thought he wasn’t coming with them.

    “Sure, I’ll go get Kim,” Félix smiled at him.

 

* * *

 

    After Watney was briefed, he was carefully suited up.  It was a team effort; he had to be lifted into the pants section gently so as not to injure his knee further.  When they stood him up again (weight on the good knee) and put on the top piece, another issue presented itself.

    “How do I use the crutches in this thing?” Watney asked, gesturing with puffy arms to the metal sticks that were no longer the right height and didn’t quite fit under his arms anymore.

    “Uh…,” Martinez trailed off, at a loss.  He looked at Kim, hoping she had a plan. “Boss?”

    “I guess we could...put him on a chair?  No, that would get stuck in the sand, wouldn’t it.  Um.”

    Watney raised his hand.  “How about that?” He pointed at Sojourner, now devoid of rocks, in the corner.  Some clever astronaut had resin-glued a metal tray to it, so he wouldn’t even slide off.  It should be able to support him.

    “Brilliant,” Kim grinned.  “You can sit on Sojourner and Félix and Martinez can push you to the MAV.”

    He smiled for the second time that sol.  “Can we leave Soji outside? So he can see the stars at night?  He shouldn’t have to live in a box.”

    “Yeah,” Kim said, placing the helmet on him and securing it, “yeah of course.”

    They checked twice to make sure the suit was sealed.  The airlock sounded as they were setting Watney down onto Sojourner, and Sim and Liam came back through a minute later when the pressure equalized.  Liam held NASA’s tourist camera in a gloved hand and held it aloft.

    “Suit up,” he said, “NASA wants a groupshot since you can’t tell how gross we look from not showering when we’re in our suits.”

    Kim groaned.  “This has Annie Montrose written all over it.  I’m surprised Sanders held out this long.” She waved at Félix, Nicole and Martinez.  “Alright, let’s give the people what they want.”

    There was some swearing and shuffling about as they moved to comply, but eventually six fully suited astronauts were lined up behind Watney and his noble steed.

    “Strike a pose,” Sim reminded them seconds before the camera timer went off.

    They took a few more shots for the history books, and then one more of just Watney (because you look so dang cute, you’ve grown too big for your wagon).  Nicole shut down the Hab, turning off the lights and equipment, and finally the main control unit, and saluted it before rejoining them.

    When they got the all-clear, Kim, followed by Sim, Liam and Nicole, and finally a Watney-pushing Félix and Martinez, stepped into the airlock and sealed it behind them.

    “You ready buddy,” Martinez asked.  He couldn’t see Watney’s face through the visor, but he liked to imagine he was smiling.

    Kim turned to face him, waiting for permission.

    “Yeah,” he said after a minute.  “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

    Kim turned back around and hit the switch.

    As the air was slowly removed from the airlock, Martinez thought he heard Watney exhale in echo.

    The door buzzed green.

    “To victory!” Martinez cried, punching the air.

    “To victory,” Watney whispered.

    They stepped out.

 

Sol 1448 

    The sun is brighter than I remember.  I’m glad for my visor as it shines down on us with cartoony cheeriness.  I look around at the planet as I get pushed along the bumpy ground like a kid on a toboggan.  The soil glows orange. It hasn’t changed at all. I thought it would look different. It should be different.  Mars has irreparably damaged me, twisted me into something not quite right. And here it is, exactly the same as it was before, totally unaffected by my presence here.  I grew plants on it, for crying out loud. It should look different. I changed you too, man.

    The four in front of us have made it to the MAV and started climbing up the ladder to get in.  Félix and Martinez do an excellent job pushing me around, but every bump of uneven Martian dirt sends a stab of pain through my left knee.  We stop a few meters away and watch Liam disappear up the hatchway.

    “You gonna miss it?” Martinez asks.

    Fuck no, I think.  “Fuck no,” I say.

    Then I see what he was pointing at.  My rovers. Good and brave Sputnik 2.  I drove it once, before this all happened, and I thought it was kind of slow.  Then it housed me during the great hydrazine incident. It picked me up after the airlock explosion.  It brought me to Pathfinder and back, to the RTG, all the damn way to Schiaparelli crater. We hid in a cave together.  I ate my last ketchup ration in that rover. It never broke down once.

    It’s sitting exactly where I left it, solar panels splayed out and charged, ready for the next leg of the journey.  I hate getting attached to inanimate objects. At least it’ll have Soji for company.

    “What, the rover?” I say, trying to sound flippant.  “Nah. It’s kind of cramped, you know. And it kind of smells like someone farted in it?”

    You fucking liar, Watney.  You are going to miss it so hard.  You gave it a name.

    “Yeah, sorry,” Martinez laughs, “That might have been me.”

    I look at it a bit longer.  Maybe someday, someone will come back for a joyride.  I let my eyes drift away from it and back to the MAV. So much cleaner and more pristine than my old rovers.  I hold no loyalty to it though. _If you don’t lift off properly, Sputnik 2 is gonna find you and beat you up,_ I threaten.

    Félix and Martinez push me the rest of the way to the MAV and stop again.

    “Guys really, I’ve had my last look around here, I’m good,” I say.

    “Yeah, okay, sure,” Martinez acknowledges.

    “So...euh…,” Félix trails off.

    “Good question,” Martinez says.

    ...what?

    “Hey boss,” he calls over the line.

    Kim’s voice answers in our helmets.  “Yep, what’s up?”

    “How to we get Watney up the ladder?” he asks.

    Oh yeah.  We look up expectantly as Kim pops her head over the opening.

    “What do you mean?  You just...oh. Right, the knee.”

    I sit back and relax, watching them bicker back and forth for a few minutes, unused to having to find solutions to problems that weren’t already planned for.  This is second nature to me by now. I didn’t even have to think. I decide to join the conversation when Kim says she’d contact NASA and see what they thought.  Fuck that. Fuck them.

    “Don’t bother,” I wave a hand at Kim before she climbs the ladder again.  “Just tie the bedsheets together. You can make a loop for me to sit on or just a tie big knot or something at the end and pull me up that way.”

    “You’re a genius Mark,” Sim says from inside the MAV.

    “Yeah, I know.”

    Ten minutes later and I’ve been safely pulled into the MAV and squished awkwardly in a chair surrounded by Martian souvenirs.  I recognize some of them as being mine. Sim lovingly and cheerfully resin glues me to my chair as the rest of the crew straps in.

    “Hope you’re comfortable Mark,” he chirps.  “I know it’s not exactly the seat of a Mercedes, but at least it’s better than business class.  There’s no crying babies anyway.”

    “Except me,” Martinez chimes in.

    “Except Rick,” Sim agrees.

    I flash him a thumbs up, not quite trusting my voice.  This is really happening. I’m really leaving. I’m really, positively, for sure, 100% leaving.  Right now.

    “Everybody set?” Kim asks.

    I clear my throat and hope my voice still works.  “Uh, I have to go to the bathroom?” I joke.

    She laughs loudly, surprised.  “Sorry Mark, you’re gonna have to hold it until the next exit.”

    The next exit.  I’m getting off at the next exit.  Finally.

    “Houston, we have seven astronauts strapped in and ready for launch,” Sim says over the comms as he types it out and sends it back to Earth.

    We get to sit around for another thirty-five minutes while we wait for a reply.  I count the boxes. Eighteen. Some of them are small, though. Through the semi-transparent lid of one of them I can see a medium sized, Mars red potato pressed against the top.

    “Ares 4...and 3, you are cleared for launch,” Sim reads off the display.

    “You heard the man,” Kim says.  “Pilot,” she asks Martinez.

    “Go.”

    “Engineer?”

    “Go,” Sim sings.

    “Systems Op?”

    “Go,” Nicole answers.

    “Medical?”

    “Go,” says Liam.

    “Botanist?”

    “Go,” Félix confirms.

    “Botanist?” she asks again.

    Fuck I said I wouldn’t cry until we got to the Hermes.

    “Go,” I manage to choke out.

    “Confirmed.  We are go for launch and will proceed as scheduled.”

    The engines roar to life, rumbling through us like the soul of the Earth.

    “Ten seconds...mark,” Martinez announces.

    I restrain myself from answering.  They need to focus.

    “Eight...seven...clamps released…”

    Fuck you, Mars.

    “Five...four…”

    Fuck you, Mars.

    “Two...one.  Liftoff!”

    The shaking intensifies and we’re slammed back into our seats by 3.5g.  We’re rising.

    Fuck you, Mars.  I start laughing inexplicably.

    My body is shit, I think to myself as my vision starts going grey.  Haven’t had to deal with gravity in a while. Adrenaline keeps me conscious for a moment longer, but biology ultimately wins.  Everything goes dark.

    I come to what seems like a few minutes later, but was evidently longer.  Sim is cutting the straps off me as Liam floats next to him. And I’m not even hallucinating that.  I wave an arm to let them know I’m alive.

    “Welcome back Mark,” Liam’s voice sounds in my helmet.  “What’s your status?”

    I hiss as the last strap is cut off.  Something hurts.

    “Fuck you, Mars,” I say instead.

    Hands on my shoulder stop me from floating away.

    “For the sake of clarity, your status is ‘fuck you, Mars’?” Liam confirms.

    “Yeah,” I answer.  I’m exhausted.

    “Hey, can I get in on that,” Martinez asks, shutting down the MAV and preparing to open the airlock.  “My status is ‘fuck you Mars’ too.”

    “Aye, agreed, feck yeh all the way down to hell, Mars.”

    “Fuck you, Mars!” Nicole whoops.

    “Sorry Annie,” Kim calls, “but yeah, Fuck you, Mars!”

    “Crisse-toi, Mars, hostie de calisse de pourris.  Mange d’la marde.”

    “That too,” I laugh.  I don’t know what that was, but I bet it was bad.

    “Ah, what the hell,” Liam sighs.  “Fuck you, Mars.”

    “Oh my god, you _swore,_ ” Nicole exclaims in delight.  “I thought that was against your code!”

    “Fuck you, Mars,” he says again, louder, pulling me gently towards the airlock as Martinez opens it.

    “Fuck you, Mars,” I yell with him, waving my hand like an orchestra conductor.  We say it again in unison. We mean every word. Or I do, anyway.

    The door opens out to a long, familiar hallway that I’ve spent many nights dreaming about.  This feels right.

    Martinez turns around to face me as Liam pushes me through the doorway.  I made it to the next exit.

    “Welcome back, Mark,” he says, throwing his arms wide.  I can hear the smile in his warbly voice. “The Hermes missed you.”

    I don’t know about the rest of the ship, but this hallway still looks the same.  The invisible hand that’s been crushing me since sol 6 relaxes it’s grip. I’m so tired.  I’m so happy.  Everyone’s gonna know I was crying the second this helmet comes off.  I can’t keep the smile off my face.

    “I’m back.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy macaroni this is a long chapter. I didn't want to end it with them still on Mars, so here we are. Wheeew. Hope you all had a happy new year! Let's all work together to make sure 2019 is a good one.  
> I actually don't totally know where I'm going with the journey back, but I have some snippets of what life's gonna be like when Mark gets back to Earth, so I'll have to figure it out. Congrats Mark, you made it off the planet! More fun stuff to come.


	27. Mark Watney doesn't reek (anymore)

Sol 1448 

      “Hey Hermes, I’m back,” I gasp over the comms.  Everything kind of vaguely hurts, but my chest vaguely hurts more.

      We all stand around like a bunch of saps for a minute.  They’re taking in the moment. Committing it to memory. Gotta make sure they remember their every thought and feeling so the documentary writers will have an accurate portrayal.

      This seems like a great time for everything to just stop.  I made it off the planet, right? The struggle is over, right?  We’ve got time for maybe one or two sappy reunion scenes, a quick epilogue, and we’re done.  I’m floating here, waiting for the end credits to roll. ...they don’t.  I guess there must be more.

      “Alright, great job everyone,” Kim says at last, “but the sol’s not over yet.  Nicole, please double check the systems, starting with the air composition and pressure.  Let us know when it’s all clear so we can take off our suits. Sim, go with her and deal with any hardware issues you guys might find.  Martinez, make sure we’re pointed in the right direction and aren’t going to crash into an asteroid or something. Félix, go ahead and check on the experiments and that everything’s still alive.  Afterwards, you can start transferring the stuff from the MAV to Hermes storage.”

      They take off with a wave as she lists their tasks.  Liam’s still holding me so I don’t float off, but I don’t feel babied by it.  I don’t trust myself to steer either.

      “Liam,” Kim turns to face us once Félix is out of sight.  “Take care of Mark. NASA will want to know how he’s doing.”

      “I’d like to know how he’s doing too,” I add.  “And when he gets that delicious dehydrated food you guys keep promising.”

      “Will do, captain,” Liam answers, ignoring the food comment and gently pulling me closer to him.  “Can we keep spinning slower for half an hour or so? I’d like to x-ray Mark before subjecting him to full gravity.”

      My mind wanders off as they discuss with Nicole over the comms the technicalities of how much spin for how long and how little gravity can they get away with and still have the water in the shower run down.

      I’m still hovering just outside the airlock attached to the MAV.  It’s been so long since I’ve been on the Hermes, it feels like it wasn’t even me.  Like I’ve been on Mars my whole life. To the left and the right is smooth white hallways, panels and equipment cluttering the walls.  There’s nothing on the outer wall of the spinning portion of the Hermes, which centrifugal force turns into the floor, but in the olden days when spacecrafts were smaller, absolutely every inch of space was used.

      I stretch out my right leg and lightly bump the floor with it.  There. I’ve touched the Hermes. Well...my bulky suit has, anyway.  Kim’s suit, I guess. Whatever. I have confirmed that the Hermes either exists, or I’m having a really vivid hallucination.  I can feel myself spacing out again, and shake my head to clear it. The jolt of pain in my ribs is enough to bring me back. I didn’t think I’d really make it here.  ...the least you could do is savor the moment, Watney.

      “Ready to go, Mark?” I startle violently as Liam’s voice echoes in my head.

      I’d somehow forgotten he was there, even though he was holding me this whole time.  A quick glance confirms that Kim was no longer in sight. I stare down the hall to the left, then the right, and realize I don’t remember where anything is anymore.

      “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

      “Great.  Stay limp, I’ll push you to the med bay.”

      Standard NASA procedure.  No point risking further injury by moving when another crewmate can move you along with minimal effort.

      We go right.  It’s surreal, going past the hatches and panels and interconnected hallways that I used to know better than my own apartment.  Like visiting an elementary school decades after graduating. Some of it looks different. Some of it is familiar. You know the place, it used to be yours, but you don’t belong there anymore.  You can feel the history of it, you can almost reach out and touch the memory of who you were the last time you belonged here. But you can never go back. And it’s sad.

      “You have reached your destination,” Liam says, trying to be funny, I think.

      “Yaay.”  I’m so tired I could die.

      We stop next to the exam table, still waiting for air quality clearance from Nicole.

      “So what hurts, Doctor Watney,” the spacesuit in front of me asks.  This feels familiar. As I recall, the answer was ‘everything is pain, my guy’.  Still holds true.

      “My ribs hurt a bit,” I say, taking a deeper breath just to make sure it still hurt and I wasn’t faking.  Yeah, ow.

      “Does it hurt when you breathe in?”

      I breathe deeply again, like an idiot, just to be really, _really_ sure.  “Kinda, yeah.  I don’t think anything’s broken.”

      “Good.  How are your knees?”

      I kick my legs out a little and kind of wobble in place.  0g is fun as shit. “The left one is still murder, but doesn’t seem any worse than it was before.  Hard to say without putting any weight on it.”

      Liam starts pulling the big x-ray contraption thing down from the ceiling.  I hate getting x-rays. They always result in a cast of some kind. The big heavy lead protective thing is so comforting though.  I should like...get a weighted blanket when I get back. And crawl under it. And never move. Gotta remember to add that to the list.

      “Your eyes went under a bit of strain when we lifted off.  Is your vision any worse than usual? Any headache or light-headedness?”

      Ugh.  Questions.  “You know, now you mention it, I am experiencing an odd floating sensation.”

      He glides closer, catches himself on the edge of the table and stops next to me.  “Are you feeling dizzy? Do you think you’ll pass out again?”

      No, Liam.  No. Let’s try that again.  “I’m experiencing,” I draw out the word and pause.  Then I worry he still won’t get it, so I wave my arms like a very slow cartoon character trying not to fall off a ledge, “a _floating_ sensation.”

      He’s silent for a moment, reflective helmet obscuring the no doubt hilarious facial expression he’s making.  You can’t make this kind of quality humour back on Earth. This is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of joke.

      “Funny.”

      He goes back to fiddling with the x-ray machine.  “Martinez woulda laughed,” I pout.

      His reply is cut off by Nicole announcing that the air quality and pressure were well within parameters and it was okay to take off the suits.

      “Alright, I’ll get you in a minute, Mark,” he says, floating to the doorway where the wall hooks live.  After carefully getting out of his flight suit and clipping it to the wall, he kicks back towards me.

      “So about your vision,” he asks again, hands releasing the clamps on my helmet.  He lifts it off (ha), nose crinkling for a fraction of a second before the professional mask slides back into place.

      “Between you and me,” I whisper, shiftily checking that no one else was listening, “I don’t think Kim ever washed this suit.”

      He quirks a smile, then shakes his head and frowns reprovingly.  “Stop deflecting.”

      There’s an ache behind my eyes and I feel like I could sleep for a year.  It feels like forever since it was yesterday. This morning I thought I’d die on Mars.  Now I’m on my way home. The black hole in the center of my chest is still there. But I’m so exhausted that the sharp painful details of it blend fuzzily into the background like everything more than a meter away from my face.

      “What time is it?”

      He sighs.  “Alright, we’ll come back to your vision later,” he pulls the rest of the suit off, trying not to knock me into anything.

      And then he helps me take my clothes off.  And not in a sexy way. More in a ‘we know you’re a disaster but how many programs are gonna get their funding cut because of your dumbass’ way.

      “Hm.  Those bruises are new,” he points to my chest.  I believe him. I feel no inclination to look at myself to confirm.  “Let’s get you x-rayed.”

      He straps me down to the exam table so I don’t float off or move too much.  We’ve trained for this too, so being strapped naked to a table doesn’t feel as awkward as it could have.  Also I’m too tired to care. But if I was cold before I’m fucking freezing now, and I want this over with so I can shower and be warm.

      “Kinky.  You haven’t even asked for my number,” I joke, trying to distract myself from the icy numbness in my extremities.

      He doesn’t take the bait, and smiles gently at me instead.  “I do actually want your number. Don’t think I’m not going to keep in touch with you when we get back to Earth.  I’ve grown fond of you. It would be good to spend time together as actual friends without the danger of space travel in the way.”

      He moves the machine into place and I blink at him, surprised.  I know he’s just saying that, but it was...nice. Am I blushing?  Jesus Christ, Watney.

      “Ah, shit.”

      He raises an eyebrow, placing the heavy led-lined blanket on my stomach.

      “I need a new phone too.  And a new number. And a new calling and data plan.”

      “They still have those on Earth.  I’m sure you’ll manage to get one.  Hold still a sec.”

      I wait for the click of the machine doing its thing.  He gives me a nod and removes the blanket.

      “But I had a really good deal,” I whine.

      “Does this hurt,” he asks pressing gently on my stomach.

      His hands are cold and I am also cold and I just want to be warm.  “Not really.”

      “No bruises either.  Congratulations, you’ve managed to avoid organ damage.  And you’re rich now, you don’t need a good deal. Does this hurt?”

      I sigh as we go through another round of ‘scale of one to ten, how fucked up is this part of you’.  Most of me doesn’t _hurt_ hurt, it’s just a general feeling of I feel awful.  Except my ribs, which do hurt. And my head. And that one knee.  And my back, but only a bit. And my eyes are starting to get scratchy from being open too long.  And my muscles hurt because I’m clenching them because I’m fucking freezing and I’m probably gonna die from hypothermia or something.  By the time we’re through and Liam’s taken my blood pressure and heart rate, I’ve started to shiver slightly.

      “Four cracked ribs, a sprained knee, pulled back muscle, significant loss of muscle mass, mild inflammation of the lymph nodes, gum irritation, weakening of the heart muscle, 43% bone density loss,” he unclips me and tosses a blanket my way, watching me miss it by a mile.  “Probable vision degradation, and reduced motor skills.”

      43% bone density loss.  Shit. That’s going to be a pain in the ass to deal with.

      “And that’s just the physical stuff,” he sighs, grabbing the blanket and handing it to me.  I wrap it around myself, still shivering. “You need an MRI too. Hab canvas wasn’t made to protect people long term.  I don’t want to scare you, but cancer is a real possibility.”

      I feel a weird flash of pride at my sol whatever self, hiding from the Hab-bomb listening to disco music.  Hab-bomb Mark Watney already thought of that, Doctor Liam Graeves. Hab-bomb Mark Watney was very careful not to let going-home Mark Watney get deadly cancer.  I find myself smiling slightly, but drop it when it makes Liam look very worried. He did just tell me I might have cancer. You idiot.

      “We’ll get into all that later,” he continues, “really, it could have been much worse.  But you’ve got your work cut out for you, Mark.”

      The work never ends.  I close my eyes, head going blank for a second.  I’m so goddamn tired of fighting.

      “There’s not too much I can do for your injuries right now, I’m afraid.  We’ll get you a real knee brace finally, and I can bandage your ribs later, but it’s going to take a long time before you start really feeling better.”

      I can tell we’ve started spinning again because I’m slowly sinking to the floor.  Liam grabs some folding crutches from a cabinet and opens them for me.

      “Do you have any questions, Mark?”

      I watch my hand take the crutches, feeling oddly detached from it.  I can’t tell if I’m dissociating or if I’m just too cold to feel it.  I stare at it tiredly.

      “I need a shower,” I hear myself say.  It wasn’t a question. The question is where the hell’s the bathroom.  And whose clothes am I gonna steal this time. Showers are warm.

      I realize Liam said something when he pokes his head in from the hallway.  When did he leave? I blink hard and turn my stiff neck towards him. He frowns.

      “I’m going to give you a painkiller,” he decides, skipping to a drawer in the corner.

      A shot of adrenaline pulses through me, tiredness gone, as my vision sharpens on the drawer.   _That one,_ something in me says.  My eyes are fixed on his back and the half-hidden open drawer in front of him.

      He turns back around, pill in one hand and water in the other.

      “Hang in there, you’ll be able to sleep soon,” he approaches, handing me the goods.  Promises, promises.

      I take it, too numb to feel pain right now anyway, but confident that will change when I have to start moving.  Then I blink and we’re halfway down the hall and he’s saying something about movie night and music schedules, holding an armful of clothes that I have no memory of him picking up.  I rub my eyes, wishing time would be linear for once. What the fuck is going on.

      We enter the bathroom and he takes a minute to point out where everything is (this toothbrush is yours, please use whatever soap and shampoo you require).  Then we stand around awkwardly. The gravity is stronger now, my modesty blanket getting heavier on me and both feet solidly on the ground.

      “Okay, so you’ve got two options,” he says eventually, opening the shower screen.  “I can help you shower, which is my personal preference, to ensure you don’t slip or hurt yourself.  Or you can sit on a plastic chair to shower, and I’ll wait outside in case you need anything.”

      Like that’s even a question.  “Chair, please.”

      He nods.  “Somehow that’s what I thought you’d say.  Don’t push yourself though. If you can’t reach something without pain, call me.”

      The chair is placed, the crutches moved to just outside the shower, within reach, the blanket replaced with a towel hung on a hook, and the curtain drawn.

      “I’m leaving the clothes next to the sink,” he calls, voice getting further away.  “I’m just outside, so if you call me I’ll hear you, okay?”

      “Yeah.”

      And I’m alone.  I collapse onto the chair, facing the taps and the shampoo and the soap and the existential dread.  I’m feeling...something. Besides cold. It’s a sort of...end of the journey...something sensation that I can’t identify and don’t know what to do with.  I know what to do about the cold, though.

      A numb skeleton hand reaches up and turns the knobs.  Warm water rushes out, hitting me smack in the face and running over me.  I sit there like leftovers in the microwave; warm on the outside, cold in the middle.  I shiver a little, waiting for my core to heat up. What is this feeling?

      My hands are shaking.  I can feel the warm water on my skin, but it feels like I’m getting colder somehow.  I curl my fingers against my chest, irrational panic flooding me as I curl into as much of a ball as my back and ribs will allow.  My eyes tearing up, my breath coming out as short gasps.

_Holy shit._

      My hair is plastered to my face, the gravity weighing me down more than physics should allow.

_Holy shit._

      I try to inhale through my teeth to breathe slower.  If I have to call Liam I’m gonna be mad. My heart is hammering against my chest, and it hurts, my neck prickling with horror.

_Holy shit I could have died.  I could have died I could have died just now, so many times, I could have.  I should be dead. Am I dead? What the fuck is this I could have fucking died._

      My strategy to slow my breathing back down backfires as I realize I haven’t inhaled in over a minute and I gasp, feeling dizzy, grateful that this chair has arms on it.

_I could have died alone on Mars and no one would have known what happened.  I blew myself up. I nearly died by blowing myself up to death._

      I rub my arms frantically against psychosomatic cold.  Some of the wetness on my face is not from the shower. My whole body is shaking.  Again. I hate this.

_I nearly starved and I was nearly cooked alive by solar radiation and I was sleeping next to unstable plutonium and I was fucking impaled and I nearly killed myself again and again and again and I nearly died and I SHOULD BE DEAD what the FUCK._

      There’s a faint, high-pitched whining in my ears, and I sit up forcefully, eyes still wide and streaming, and try my hardest to breathe normally.  Do _not_ fucking pass out, Watney.  They’ll never let you do anything by yourself again.  I reach for the shampoo, hands still shaking, heart still beating too hard.  So you almost died. A lot. No biggie. I stifle a sob and swipe at my eyes.  No biggie. Life goes on and so do you.

      I can’t do anything about what I went through.  I can’t do anything about what I’m going to go through, trying to become a real human being again.  I am one small martian astronaut, and there’s a lot of things I can’t do anything about. I can wash my hair, though.

      I pour out some shampoo, reaching my hands to my head, ignoring the slight ping of pain from my ribs.  Yeah. It’s a start.

 

* * *

 

 

      It’s probably thirty or forty minutes later by the time I’m really, properly _clean_ for the first time in years.  Well over the allotted 10 minutes of water per person.  Especially when you consider I’m not part of this crew and my allotment should really be 0.

      Standing up is a fun adventure, but I manage both it and toweling myself off without falling over like an idiot.  The folded clothes are waiting next to the sink as promised, and my crutches and I hobble over to them. Standard issue sweatshirt and pants.  I trace the name embroidered on the side. Kim’s.

      I place a hand on the fabric, but don’t pick it up, trying to talk myself into doing something I’ve been avoiding.  My eyes sweep over the sweatshirt, light grey, synthetic heat-resistant material. I drag my eyes to the left, then up, where they meet themselves in the mirror above the sink.

      I’m not vain.  But I used to be handsome, I think.  Now I look like the cover of a National Geographics magazine.  And not in a good way. My eyes are red from crying (but I plan on blaming that on shampoo).  I trace the bags under them. They’ve never looked this bad, not even when I was pulling all-nighters three times a week in university.  Cheekbones that used to be charming now lie above vast canyons of sunken-in cheeks that look like they were designed for a Hollywood horror movie.  I can count my ribs. Thirty sols of calories was not enough to stop my hip bones from jutting out unnaturally next to my hollowed out stomach. I have more bruises than I rightly should given that I barely did any physical activity for an entire month.  I can circle my wrist with my index finger and thumb. You could probably break me in half with an over-enthusiastic clap on the shoulder. I have no idea how I’m standing right now, given that basically all my muscles that I spent countless hours of exercising to build, are now gone.

      I’m exactly as big a mess as I thought I’d be.  If I hadn’t just cried for forty minutes, I might now.   _At least,_ I scramble for an empty positive to all of this, _at least it’s proof that something happened.  You can look at your gross, malnourished body and know it meant you went through something, and that’s why you’re fucked up right now._

      I pull on donated boxers, then baggy sweatpants.  I could have died.

      Warm, fluffy socks come next, and the extra warmth nearly makes me smile.  I could have died.

      The oversized sweater comes next, and I swear I don’t remember them being this comfortable, but _God damn,_ it’s clean and I’m clean and this is about as good as it can get.  I could have died.

      I look at myself again, all bone and sunken cheeks and baggy eyes which nevertheless still have some life in them.  Not a trace of Hab dirt anywhere to be seen. I smile despite myself. I desperately need a haircut. I could have died.

      I fucking didn’t.

      This isn’t how I thought this moment would go.  I grin at myself stupidly for another minute before it passes and gravity reminds me that it’s still there and I’m still weak as shit.  I could sleep just about anywhere right now. I grab the crutches and hobble out, where Liam is waiting, as promised. He looks up and flashes a smile.

      “You alright,” he asks, observing my still-red eyes.

      “Shampoo,” I excuse, pointing.  He nods. Together we move slowly down the hallway.  I don’t even know where we’re going. “If the filters get clogged I nominate Martinez to clean it.”

      He laughs.  “Hermes filters are a bit more resilient than the water reclaimer, but I’ll let him know.”

      We step through a door into the rec room, full of familiar couches and tables and people.  I never thought I’d see this again. Morning feels like forever ago. Time is wack. I plop down on a couch, leaning tiredly against the nearest body (Félix) and wave a ‘whatever’ when asked what I wanted to eat.  Human contact is warm and nice feeling.

      Muffled voices, a vague memory of being asked something and a mumbled, incomprehensible answer.  The taste of tomato based pasta. Warm blankets. A kind of safety that I haven’t felt since leaving Earth.

      I’m vaguely horizontal, about to pass out in the living room like a child.  I’ve just set some sort of new record for couchsurfing.

      Something happy warms my chest as I snuggle into a pillow that appeared from somewhere.  I can’t feel anything but the weight of the blanket and I am so comfortable. As I fall asleep, a small, but hopeful, part of me quietly insists that it was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy valentine's day! I love all of you and reading your comments makes my day. Welcome new readers, welcome back old readers, and thanks for your patience. Some of the things you've been requesting like discussing the video game and the crew watching the logs will be coming up on the journey back to Earth. I also want to include the rest of Ares 3 more, so we'll see how I can work that in. We'll probably go back to shorter days, but more of them, over the next few chapters, but since it's Mark's first day back I wanted to do it properly.


	28. Home Movies

Log Entry: Sol 

      Uhh.  Wait.

 

Log Entry: Mission Day...shit, when are we? 

      Crap.  Sorry, hang on.

 

Log Entry: Mission Day 1616 

      There we go.  You guys! I get to write mission day!  The sols have fucked off and stayed behind on Mars, and I didn’t stay with them!  This is fucking amazing. I’ve got a big sappy grin on my face and it’s not even 9am yet.  Martinez is in the rec room with me and tells me it was around 6:30 pm Earth time when I “passed out like a drunk at a party”.  15 and a half hours of dreamless sleep. I’m still fucking exhausted, but then again I didn’t really sleep the last two sols.

      My ribs hurt, but it’s tolerable.  My back also hurts (possibly from not moving for 15 hrs) and I haven’t tried walking, but I suspect my knee hurts too.  I don’t really want to ask for a painkiller. Mostly because I’m still kinda mad about Liam and NASA’s grilling me about my vicodin use and I don’t want to give them an opportunity to ask more questions about it.  Plus it would really suck to get addicted to morphine, so whatever. At least nothing’s broken, I guess.

      I should get up.  And like… get breakfast.  But this couch is so much more comfortable than I remember, and the blankets are warm and there’s too many things to choose from.  Do I want cereal? Should I have yogurt? Scrambled eggs? I have a short list of things I’ve been banned from eating for the time being, but there are still a lot of things I could have.  The wrong choice could mess up my entire day. And this couch is warm and squishy.

      If I crane my neck I can see Mars rotating slowly through the rec room window.  Even though it’s only about half the size of Earth, it looks bigger from up here.  It’s been less than a day since we got on the Hermes, and we’re just starting to get up to speed now, so it still looms pretty big and menacing.  It’s beautiful, in the same way that a poison dart frog or a lightning storm is beautiful. The textbooks don’t do it justice. I stare at it with laser eyes over the cushions.  You think you’re hot stuff, don’t you Mars. You think because Earth has taken an interest in you, you can’t be touched. That you’re too beautiful to destroy like we nearly did our own planet.  But we know better, you and I. You’re ugly on the inside. And I’ve dug deep enough to know.

 

* * *

 

      “You know we brought entertainment with us, right?  You don’t have to stare out the window for the whole trip home,” Martinez says.

      I blink away from the window, my neck stinging from being twisted for so long.  Sitting at the table, Martinez closes his laptop and stretches. He looks happier in clean clothes.  There’s something satisfying about seeing him here, relaxing on the Hermes, on our way back home. Like we’ve finally typed in a missing parentheses and our long sidequest has finally been closed.  We left together, and now we’re going back. I smile at him.

      “Thanks, but I think I’ve seen enough Duck Tales,” I tease, “get back to me when you’ve got a cat I can play with.”

      He holds a hand against his chest in mock betrayal.  “You haven’t even gotten to the big plot twist yet!”

      I snicker at him, then regret it as it makes my chest hurt.  I’m hungry. Get up, Watney. The gravity got stronger while I was sleeping, and I feel the extra weight as I swing my legs over the edge of the couch and sit up properly.

      “Oof,” I groan, feeling every bit the old man that I am.

      “Long day, Watney?”

      I tilt my head sideways to look at him, trying to get the crick out of my neck.  Ow. “Yeah, long day,” I sigh. I literally just woke up. I have a headache from all the sleep I just got that I just woke up from like 15 minutes ago.

      “It’s 9 am, buddy.  And you don’t have to work.”

      I grab the crutches from where they were leaning against the arm-rest, trying to psych myself up to stand.  “I have to work,” I grit my teeth against a flash of pain in my back as I lean forward, “at being my usual charming self.”

      Inhale, hold your breath, place your weight on your right leg, one arm holding the crutches, one holding the seat, lift yourself with your arms and good leg, try not to scream as you are violently reminded of your four cracked ribs, lean on the crutches, wait for the pain to die down a bit, exhale.  Wait for your arms to stop shaking before you trust them with your body weight. Weight on good leg, crutches forward, act like you’re going to take a step, move your hip forward, weight on your arms, _FUCK MY RIBS._  Catch yourself, Watney, do not fucking fall.  Gravity is an asshat.

      “You okay, man?” Martinez is wincing sympathetically and I peer at him through watery eyes.  “Do you want a painkiller?”

      I wait a few seconds for my breathing to even out and blink the tears back.  Boy, I can’t wait to break more things on the way down to Earth. ...if I even make it that far.

      “...nah,” I say eventually, gripping my crutches and hobbling very slowly over to the table.  “What are you working on?”

      “Oh, very important stuff, mission critical,” he says seriously.

      I make it to the table and Martinez kicks a chair out for me.  I collapse, exhausted by the short journey from the couch. I miss my brief time in 0g.

      “Mission critical, huh?”  I know he’s not being serious.  If there were really a problem, he’d be cracking jokes to make me feel better about it.  I frown. Not that it’s even really my mission anymore. I know Félix has a root growth experiment, but what even are the other ones?  What’s the slogan for Ares 4? All I do is sit around and watch other people do things. I feel like a tourist. If there were a problem, would they even let me help?

      “Dude, not really,” Martinez backtracks, misreading the semi-permanent scowl on my face.  “Here,” he clicks his laptop back open and slides it over.

      A video is paused on the still frame of a young kid holding a storybook called “The Darkest Dark”.  His grinning face shines up at me, looking faintly familiar. Next to him, a toddler is asleep. I squint at the older kid.  Can’t be. “Is that David? He’s gotten so big.”

      Martinez straightens proudly, slapping his hands to his face.  “Isn’t he adorable,” he gushes, “he’s seven already, can you believe it?  You haven’t even met Jules yet,” he points to the sleeping toddler. “But you will when we get back.”

      I stare at the screen and blink slowly as the implications sink in.  I look back at Martinez, his eyes still sparkling with fatherly pride.  Seeing the genuine happiness on his face, I can’t help but smile. “Congratulations,” I clap him on the shoulder.  “I can’t believe Marissa let you sleep with her twice!”

      He sticks his tongue out at me, then waggles his eyebrows.  “You know she can’t resist this,” he strokes his unshaved scruffy-looking chin.  I unconsciously mimic him, hand scratching against a short beard that hasn’t seen any maintenance since before I left Acidalia Planitia.  I need to shave. And get a haircut. My only saving grace is that hair growth slows down when you’re malnourished. This whole Mars stunt better not make me prematurely bald.

      I pull on the end of my hair absently.  Despite my low-calorie diet, it’s down to my shoulders.  I have a faint memory of trying to give myself a haircut with my shaky uncoordinated hands sometime after the last potato harvest and I never bothered to fix it.  It doesn’t look as bad now, but it’s still pretty uneven.

      You’re being vain, Watney.  Be glad you’re alive.

      My head is fuzzy and sluggish, and I can feel myself trying to slip into the crack in the universe that leads to the source of all static.  I shake my luscious locks like a Disney princess to come back to the present. Martinez is smiling fondly down at the screen, and I reach carefully over his arm to hit the spacebar.

 

_“He’d seen that the darkness of the universe was so much bigger and deeper than the darkness in his room,” David’s squeaky seven year-old voice sounded through the laptop speakers as he read, “but he was not afraid.  He wanted to explore every corner of the night sky.”_

 

      I smile as he turned the page, frowning in concentration.  Kids are adorable. When they’re not screaming.

 

_“And he realized you’re never really alone there.  Your dreams are always with you, just waiting,” David glanced at his sister next to him, looking delighted that she was sleeping.  He grinned happily as he continued, “Big dreams about the kind of person you want to be.”_

_He looked at the camera, presumably held by Martinez.  His eyes were sparkling unusually bright under the reading lamp, chubby cheeks squished into a big grin._

_“Dreams that actually can come true,” he finished in a loud whisper.  He turned the book around slowly, taking care not to jostle his sister, and showed it to the camera.  It was an illustration of an astronaut floating outside the ISS, Earth in the background. “It’s you, Dad,” he pointed._

_A hand reached into the frame to ruffle his hair, and the video ended._

 

      I lean back, having moved forward to avoid squinting.  Christ that was cute.

      “That’s a pretty advanced book for his age,” I note.

      “Yeah, I think he might actually be reciting from memory and not reading it,” Martinez grinned sheepishly.  “I’ve read him that one a lot.”

      “Corrupting them early, huh?”

      He shrugged.  “Marissa’s too used to me to think I’m cool, so someone in the house has to.  I’m kind of vain that way.”

      I jump as he stands abruptly, pushing back from the table.  “Anyway, you need food. What do you want?”

      Ah, hell yeah.  People food. “I dunno.  Something. Not potatoes.”

      I watch him jealously as he walks over to the meal-storage cupboards.  I miss being able to get up and walk wherever I want without having to plan it out first.  Crutches suck.

      It’s weird, how many steps it took him to get to the cupboards.  This place feels...huge. Everything is more spaced out than it used to be.

      I remember the first time we boarded the Hermes how small it seemed.  Size and weight are everything when you’re sending stuff into space. The bigger it is, the costlier.  So most things in here are pretty cramped. Small hallways, small labs, small bathrooms. Even the beds are half the width of a twin.  They made the rec room and the attached kitchenette a little bigger, since it was made to fit the whole crew at the same time (something about socializing being good for you), but even that used to seem smaller.  It used to take me like a second to get from the doorway to the couch I woke up on. Now everything feels farther away.

      “Did this place grow since the last time I was here,” I ask as Martinez comes back with some sort of waffle-thing.

      He looks around, considering.  Even the ceiling looks higher up, and it’s not just because I’m sitting down.

      “I think you just shrank, Watney.”

      He hands me the waffle-thing and waits for me to laugh.  It’s funny because I did shrink, you see. Fucking 43% bone density loss, son of a son.

      He waits for a reaction, then shuffles awkwardly and sits down when I don’t give him one.  “Yeah, I guess it does seem a little bigger after being in the Hab for a month,” he acknowledges.

      I’m trying to pay attention to him, but it’s difficult when there’s food in front of me.  I don’t really remember what I had yesterday, so the novelty of being able to chew something has not worn off yet.  I stab into the center of the waffle and pick it up as a whole to eat it instead of trying to cut it with my fork. I wonder if they’ve gotten rid of all the knives yet.

      “I can’t imagine how you must feel, having lived in a cramped Hab for four years,” he continues, stabbing at his own waffle but not actually eating it.  “Not to mention the months you spent in the rover.”

      “Mhm.”  Holy shit there’s real maple syrup on this.

      He frowns at his waffle, twirling it on his fork above the plate.  Dude, if you’re not gonna eat that, give it to me.

      He looks at me, flashes a smile, then goes back to twirling his waffle like a despondent teenager.  Fuck I’m gonna have to talk to him.

      I finish my first waffle and stab into the one underneath.

      “What,” I ask, already lifting the fork.  That came out more irritable than I meant it to.  Oh well. He’ll be fine. Foood.

      Martinez sets his waffle down, blinks a few times (wait, was he about to cry…?) and looks at me across the table.

      “Can we talk about how you thought we were going to leave you behind,” he asks as I bite down.

      Shit.  No. We can’t.  I have a mouthful of waffle and I can’t answer.  I also can’t stop him from talking. Crap.

      “Because my life...none of our lives have been the same since we thought you died.  And then to find out we _left_ you, that’s going to haunt us.  I know I like to joke, and pretend everything’s normal, because what else is there to do.  But maybe I joked too much and it lead to you misunderstanding things somehow. I don’t want you to think we’re unaffected.  That we don’t care. That we’ve moved on.”

      I’m sitting here, frozen, waffle stuffed in my cheeks like a chipmunk.  This is awkward. I should finish chewing, but then I might have to participate in this conversation.  God knows I can’t hobble to the door before Martinez would outrun me.

      “You’re my best friend,” his eyes dart to the side and he blinks suspiciously fast again.  “Mars hasn’t changed that. It hurts that you think we’d just leave you behind again. I only came _back_ here because I felt like you needed me to.  Even though you were gone.”

      He frowns down at his waffle and I chew hastily.

      “I wish you’d just yell at us already instead of bottling everything up,” he sighs.

      I swallow and try to figure out what I’m supposed to say.  What do you want from me? To tell you that I’m not angry and it wasn’t your fault?  I can’t. I am angry. There was nothing any of you could have done but I’m angry anyway.  I don’t even know at who. I’m not gonna yell at you for it, though. I don’t even know what’s real half the time because my brain’s a fucking liar nowadays.  I don’t feel like justifying myself to you and I can’t find the right words in my foggy brain to make you feel better about this. And I really have to eat this waffle now.

      ...of course I don’t say any of that.  The silence drags on, well past the point of an acceptable response time.  I shrug and take another bite.

      “...Sorry, Watney,” he shakes his head and smiles again, but I’ve done it enough times to recognize that it’s fake.  “It shouldn’t be on you to make us feel less guilty. You’ve got enough going on, I just want you to get better, alright?”

      I finish my waffle.  My plate is empty and I’m all out of excuses not to continue this conversation.  You should probably say something, Watney.

      “My brain’s an idiot,” I offer lamely.

      Martinez raises his eyebrows, putting his fork down entirely.

      “Well I mean…,” he looks down at the table, then back up, the corner of his mouth twitching, “you went into _botany_ , man.  ‘S kind of a given.”

      No respect, these kids.  No respect, I tell you.

      “Martinez, I have literally never seen you work.”

      “I flew us up here,” he cries indignantly.

      “You made that up.  I don’t remember that happening,” I sniff.

      “That’s because you were unconscious!  It’s not my fault you were slacking off while the MAV and I were pulling your weight.”

      “I was going to make a point, dude.”

      “Sorry.”  He sits back and waves me to continue.

      He’s really not gonna eat those waffles, is he?  Cripes. ...ooh, crepes. Damnit, focus, Watney.

      I make a concentrated effort to look at Martinez instead of his plate.

      “Look, I know my being alive has made everyone feel all kinds of guilty, and I didn’t want to make it worse, so I tried to act like I hadn’t changed.  But I have, and my brain’s an idiot now,” there, I said it. “My people skills are kind of rusty, so sometimes I misinterpret things. I can’t always tell if something is real or if I made it up.  I don’t really know what I can do about it, so just...if you catch me being stupid, call me out on it.”

      He sits for a minute, then nods.  “Mark…,”

      Oh hell, I’m Mark now.

      “Don’t give me that look, that’s your name,” he wags a finger at me, “ _Mark,_ I would be honoured to call you out when you’re being an idiot.  It is my solemn duty as your best friend. But you’ve gotta stop trying to think our thoughts for us, man.  You can trust me to tell you when you’re being annoying, but if you’re worried about what we’re thinking, just _ask._  We’re not gonna lie to you.”

      This is too much angst for this early in the morning.

      “We cool, Watney,” he asks, lifting up his waffle again and looking like he might actually eat it this time.

      Instead of answering, I reach across the table with my fork and steal his other waffle.

      “Oi!”

      I bite into it unrepentantly.  I’d have just gotten up to get more, but I can’t carry things and use these stupid crutches at the same time.

      “I can’t believe you’d steal from me after I opened up to you,” he says, placing a hand over his heart.  “You wound me.”

      “Sorry, Martinez,” I’m not sorry at all.  I look him carefully in the eye and pointedly take another bite.  “Am I being annoying?”

      He sighs.  “Always, man.  Always.”

      Good.

 

* * *

 

      Three hours later, Liam tags in and Martinez leaves the room with a wave, saying something about having actual work to do.  A likely story.

      My back’s getting stiff again, and I stare longingly at the slightly comfier couch where I left the laptop.  I push my chair back a little and press down experimentally on the floor with my right leg. Everything immediately hurts.  I slump back against the chair with a sigh and start calculating the cost-benefit analysis of moving over vs. staying here. Liam sits down daintily with his own laptop.  I wonder what kind of entertainment he brought with him. Doctor-patient confidentiality (or NASA’s approximation of it) means I never got to use his laptop, so I don’t know what’s on it.  Curious, I lean forward until my back reminds me that it is not pleased and I’m forced to abandon my spying ways.      

      Liam watches me keenly.  “How long have you been sitting there?”

      I rub my back with a grimace.  “Few hours. I’m not quite up to touring the Hermes yet; the shower painkillers have worn off and Mars has made me old and creaky.”

      He frowns lightly.  “Okay. You should get up now, then.  It’s not good to sit for too long, and you’re already at a higher risk for blood clots since you haven’t used your left leg in a month and you have some minor circulation problems from the reduced gravity.  Try to get up and walk a little at least once an hour.”

      On the one hand, the couch is far.  And I’m here. ...but on the other, my back hurts.  And maybe it won’t on the squishy cushions? But my ribs will hurt from the journey.  Of course if I don’t get up, Liam will just keep nagging me. And then I’ll get a headache.  Hm.

      “Come on, Mark.  I’ve got something to show you,” he stands and picks up his laptop, waving it enticingly.

      Ughhh.  Fine. My food is gone, so there’s nothing to occupy me at the table anyway.  Left hand on chair. Right hand on table. Weight on right leg, push up with leg and arms, _fuck_ my _ribs._  Hold position, regain balance, wait for pain to die down.  Reach for crutches and...fuck I knocked them over. I stare at them despondently.  This is the worst.

      “I’ve got it,” Liam smiles encouragingly and picks up the crutches, handing them over.

      I let out a breath as I take them grudgingly.  “My knee doesn’t feel too bad anyway,” I try, “I could probably walk on it.”

      “No,” his hands flash up and he darts closer, ready to grab me.  “Trust me, you don’t want to do that. It’ll set you back weeks.”

      “Alright, alright.”  Goddamn the couch is far, though.  Alright. Balance on right, crutches in front, shift body wei- _fuck my ribs_ okayokay.  Look, that was a whole step.  Repeat.

      “Well done,” Liam smiles sympathetically when I finally make it over and collapse on the couch, gasping for air like I’ve run a marathon.  My arms are shaking.

      He pulls a chair over and tucks it under my knee, then walks off for a minute, coming back with an ice pack wrapped in a towel.  “Here, hold this to your ribs until I tell you to take them off. It’ll help with the pain and bruising.”

      I’m too wiped to answer as I comply.  I used to be fit. I used to jog for 20 minutes straight like it was nothing.  Now look at me.

      Liam sits down, laptop in hand.

      I cover my mouth with my hand to try and hide how out of breath I am.  It feels like forever before it’s finally back down to a normal rate. I don’t know if I can bounce back from this.

      “You will bounce back,” I jump as Liam speaks, clicking his laptop open and pulling up a window.  “You just need to be patient.”

      I frown.  It bothers me more than I’d like to admit that I can’t tell when I speak my thoughts out loud.  How am I supposed to get away with criminal activity if I keep spilling all my secrets without even realizing?

      “Here,” he slides his laptop over.

      I take it and sigh when I see Venkat Kapoor’s face on the screen (oh yeah, that’s what he looked like).  Thank god we’re not close enough for live chats yet. I’m really not looking forward to dealing with HR. There’s gonna be so much paperwork.  And I’m still kind of mad at NASA for not looking for me and ignoring Pathfinder when it pinged. I’ve been answering all of Teddy Sander’s questions through various members of Ares 4, because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of direct correspondence with his latest achievement (because no matter how bad NASA looks for not knowing I was alive, my survival is nevertheless a plus for science and gives them sort-of bragging rights).  At least Kapoor fought for me, I’ve been told. Or fought for the Ares program, anyway.

      “Aren’t you going to play it?” Liam asks.

      Eh.  Not like I have anything better to do.  I shrug and hit play.

 

_“Hello, Mark Watney,” Kapoor smiles at the camera.  “Congratulations on making it off Mars. You’ve made us all very proud, here at NASA,” he pauses awkwardly for a moment.  “I’ve spent the last 30 days trying to figure out what to say to you when you finally got back to the Hermes. The truth is, I still don’t know.  What do you say to a guy who spent four years doing something that you could only dream was possible, while trapped in a situation that you wouldn’t wish on anyone?”_

_He pushes his glasses up and clears his throat.  “So I asked around. I thought I’d get some great speeches about what a hero you are, and how brave and resilient you have been forced to be.”_

 

      Ugh.  Spare me.

 

_“Here’s what they said.  Former Pathways intern Martin Leeks, now a full engineer, whom you may remember running into in the halls during late-night training, says thanks for the coffee.  He needed it, and he owes you one when you get back, once you’ve been cleared for it.”_

_Kapoor lifts up some cue cards, flipping to the next one before continuing.  “Marie Bennet, one of our invaluable cleaning workers, recalled how kind you were that time you helped her sweep Conference Room D, and says she hopes ‘that sweet young man’ comes home safely.”_

 

      I...don’t remember either of those people.  Did I really do those things?

 

_“Satcon operator Carmen Santz says she misses the bi-monthly Mario Kart races, and reminds you that the score is currently tied.  She promises a five second head-start if you want to play again.”_

 

      ...I do remember that.  It was the only thing that kept me sane during the stress of the unending psych evals.

 

_Kapoor flips through his cue cards.  “It goes on like that. Very few people said anything about how your time on Mars made you a hero.  Seems you already were one before you left.”_

 

      I swallow against the lump in my throat.  People keep saying nice things about me. Collapsed on the couch, only just now getting my breath back, looking like a scruffy ragamuffin, I don’t feel very heroic.

 

_“Everyone I spoke to insisted on delivering their message themselves,” Kapoor continued.  “Naturally that would make for a longer video than we could send. So…,” the camera pans out, revealing satcon packed absolutely to the brim with people._

_Lewis, Vogel, Beck, Johanssen and my parents stood at the front (that’s what they looked like!), and what seemed like the entire Johnson Space Center staff were crammed in behind them.  At a signal, they all started clapping and cheering. Vogel barked out a loud, happy laugh, and my dad was bawling his eyes out, hands held high above his head, clapping as hard as he could._

_“We’re all cheering you on, Mark Watney,” Kapoor shouted over the din, “so come home soon.”_

_“That’s an order, Watney,” Lewis yelled._

_“What she said,” Beck agreed._

_“Don’t let Martinez boss you around,” Johanssen threw in._

_Vogel nodded, head bobbing an exaggerated movement to be sure it’s visible in the wide camera shot.  “Remember, you have the seniority now!”_

_“We love you,” my mom yelled.  My dad was too overcome to talk, but he shook his fists in the air like a victorious sportsman before continuing to clap._

_At another signal, the room quieted down, before they all shouted in unison “SEE YOU SOON!”_

_The screen faded out to the NASA logo and the video ended._

 

      I sit back heavily against the couch.  I take a breath and close the laptop with a soft click, handing it back to Liam.  My chest aches for various reasons. I lean an elbow on the arm-rest to support my head, suddenly heavy, and I look off to the side.

      “Are you alright, Mark?” Liam asks with feigned indifference.

      “Yeah,” I croak.

      A hand pats me on the shoulder.  “Okay.” I hear his laptop clicking open, clearly allowing me some space for a moment.  ...he doesn’t _leave_ , though.  Whatever.

      My eyes prickle as I stare at the floor.  The big window is behind me, and Mars is about 60,000km away by now.  I can still feel it looming though, and for an irrational moment I want to go back.  Because as much as I hated it, as much as I suffered there, at least Mars had no expectations of who I was supposed to be as a person, no illusions as to the quality of my moral character.

      I cover my eyes, wishing I could just flip a switch and set my brain back to factory defaults.

      Come on, Laika.  That was supposed to be uplifting.  They care about you, and they don’t care about what you had to go through.  Maybe they won’t ask questions you don’t want to answer. They care about you, and the person that you are, and not your damage.

      ...but what if I’m not that person anymore?  What if Mars has made me hard and I don’t know how to be kind anymore?  What if I’ve become so focused on survival and eating food and watching movies and finding little ways to stay alive that I’ve lost the ability to sweep floors for people?  To buy a tired intern coffee? To relax enough while near other people that I can play a game? What if I’m not _nice?_

      There is a room full of people at Johnson space center, cheering for the person they remember to come back home, and I don’t know if I can give them that.  What if I get back and I just disappoint everyone? What if I can’t re-integrate into society? ...What if it’s better I don’t go back at all?

      I stare hard at the floor.  Mars looms behind me. The coffee cups rattle, and I don’t know who I am anymore.  I don’t know what I am. The future is an uncertain mess, and I have no control over any of it.  Not anymore.

      I hear Liam’s keyboard clicking beside me, and I surreptitiously feel my mouth to make sure it’s still shut.  ...it is. Not for the first time, I wish I could be alone, so I have no one to impress. Guiltily, I realize this is exactly the sort of thing he specifically asked me to talk about with him.  Don’t get caught up in ‘what ifs, Mark’, he had said. ‘Talk to me first’.

      But what if he tells me it’s all in my head, and of course I’m a nice person, and then I get all the way back home only to find out I’m not?  And then I’m left alone again, but not by choice or by circumstance, but because I’m unpleasant to be around?

      I pull on my hair.  Stop. Stop it, Watney.

      That was supposed to be uplifting, I’m pretty sure.

      The coffee cups rattle.

      My heart sinks below the cushions.

      I want to go home.  And I don’t even know where that is.

 

* * *

 

      “You guys can leave, you know,” I grumble, “it’s fine.  I won’t like...run away during the night, or anything.”

      It’s 10:30 pm, and if I remember the Ares 3 schedule, all of them are up past their bedtimes.  They’ve been dancing around actually going to sleep for the last 30 minutes now, and I have a sneaking suspicion I know why.  

      “We, uh…,” Sim starts, then seemingly gives up on the sentence and shrugs instead.

      “Sorry, Mark,” Kim takes over, “but one of us has to stay with you.  NASA’s orders. Do you have a preference who?”

      Suspicion confirmed.  Irritation bubbles up in me.  NASA leaves me alone for four years and now they won’t even leave me for eight hours.  What do they think I’m going to do, take apart the ship while everyone’s sleeping? Eat all the cookies?  Host a party and invite all the neighbourhood kids that I don’t know that well?

_You know what they think you’re going to do._

      Yeah.  I know.  But I’m far too tired to kill myself today, and I just want to be able to think.  And with my stupid mouth, I can’t think when I’m near anyone.

      “What if I pinkie promise not to kill myself while you guys are asleep,” I try.

      Martinez rubs his forehead, looking like an old man.  “Dude, don’t even joke about that.”

      “Who’s joking,” I stick my pinkie out, “I, Mark Watney, promise I will not kill myself while you’re sleeping, so go to bed.  This couch ain’t big enough for two people and I’m not making anyone sleep on insulation foam.”

      “Mark, we cannae just-”

      “It’s not that we don’t trust you, we just-”

      Sim and Nicole start at the same time, and Félix walks over and lays a hand on my shoulder with a mumbled “désolé.”

      “Didn’t you guys already take the dangerous stuff out of the room?  What am I even gonna kill myself with?”

      Martinez plops down on the couch next to me, clearly unhappy with the direction this conversation is taking.

      “How do you know about that?” Liam asks suspiciously.  “You were asleep.”

      “Because I’m not an idiot!” I wave my hands in frustration, immediately regretting it when my ribs hurt.  Ow.

      “Suicidal people can be very creative,” Nicole says quietly.  “Just ask my brother. There’s always ways to do it. Humans are pretty fragile.  Besides, the airlock is on this side of the Hermes.”

      Martinez gives her a dirty look, and she shrugs.  “What, like he didn’t know?”

      “I’m not suicidal,” I say, making a mental note to figure out if that’s true or not later.  “But if you’re really worried I’m going to go walk out an airlock while you’re sleeping because...I don’t know, I miss my potatoes or something, then here,” I hold out my crutches, offering them to Liam.  “I can’t go anywhere without these. I can barely go anywhere with them, so unless you think Mars has given me telekinetic superpowers, you can safely leave me alone at night.”

      Liam frowns, takes them, then gives them back.  “No, you wouldn’t be able to come get us if you need help.  ...what if you switch with someone and sleep in their bed, near us so we can hear you?”

      “I’m not putting anyone out of their rooms,” taking someone’s bed for 30 sols made me feel bad enough, thank you.  “Besides the crew quarters are far, _and_ there’s a ladder.  My ribs and I hate the idea of going there and back every day.”

      There’s a quiet moment where it seems like I’m going to lose this argument.  But if I have to spend the next 210 days under constant supervision, I am going to actually go crazy.  ...Crazier. ...you know what I mean.

      “Why don’t we just push the couch to be next to the intercom switch,” Félix suggests.  “Mark will be able to call us if he needs something.”

      Martinez still doesn’t look happy.  I guess all that me dying and almost dying and then being found and almost dying again has made him a tad overprotective.  Get over it.

      Kim looks over at Liam.  “Your call, doc.”

      He thought for a moment, my sanity hanging in the balance, before nodding.  “Okay,” he agreed. “You can sleep on the couch next to the intercom, and we’ll put your crutches on the other side of the room.  If you need to get up for whatever reason, call us. Don’t try to get them yourself.”

      I’m not a masochist, Liam.

      Martinez sighs, but doesn’t argue further, getting up instead so we can move my new bed.  Everyone looks at me expectantly. Oh, right.

      Right hand on cushion.  Left hand on crutches. Scoot forward.  Deep breath. Weight on right knee. Stand as quickly as you ca-fuuuck ow.  Crutches under arm before you fall over because your balance is shit. Try to play it off like you’re not in agony.  Fail.

      Martinez looks annoyingly reassured by how difficult and painful it was for me to get up.  I told you, you jerk. This is the last time I’m standing up today.

      After some shuffling around and moving of furniture and hobbling to the couch and giving up my crutches (yes, I’ve been to the bathroom, _mom_ ), they finally, _finally_ leave.

      And I’m left alone for the first time in over a month.

      It’s quiet, and dark, and empty.  A bit spooky, even, like something might phaze through the wall and get me.  If something knocks on the window from the outside I might actually run out of the room, broken body be damned. The intercom is right next to the window (and another by the door), so I can see Mars without hurting my neck, now.  I flip a finger at it. I don’t mind the view as much as I thought I might. Because if it’s back there and I’m up here, that means I’m not on the surface.

      I try to convince myself to sleep, but it actually feels weird without the Ares 4 crew present.  The too-big room feels even bigger now that there’s just me in it. Could fit an awful lot of ghosts in here.

      Mars rotates slowly in the distance, almost a million kilometers further away than it was this morning, but still 223,000,000 km closer than Earth.  As I watch it, I can still taste the dust. Still feel the wind. Still see that heartbeat of a moment so many sols ago when the sky flashed blue and I remembered Earth, and that meant home.  I wonder if I’ll ever be home again. The red planet rotates, and I speed away, and I wonder if I’ll ever, truly, leave it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tiptoes back in*
> 
> So sorry about the long wait! I ran out of outline and got stuck on it for a bit. Oops.  
> I also fractured my foot last month, and am still on crutches for another six weeks, so I have a newfound appreciation of what a pain in the butt they are. You can expect Watney to complain a lot about them.
> 
> The book David was reading is "The Darkest Dark" by astronaut Chris Hadfield, so those words aren't mine. It is a really cute book, though.
> 
> I also realized that I calculated the date wrong, and it's now early December, and not May/June like Kim stated when they found Watney, so just a heads up, actually it's winter now.
> 
> This should be the last 1 day = 1 chapter post, since I do want them to get back to Earth eventually. Hopefully I'll be able to get the next one ready a bit sooner. :)


End file.
